


Out of Sight

by Grigiocuore



Category: Psych
Genre: A bit of Supernatural, Detective Bromance, Hurt/Comfort, Lassie Whumpage, M/M, Shassie Developing Relationship, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/pseuds/Grigiocuore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lassiter wakes up in a parking lot after a nasty explosion. He feels good, Juliet and Shawn are fine; just another harmless, deadly adventure for the SBPD gang. Except that one of them is hurt and bleeding on the concrete. And that no one seems to see Carlton. A story about love, friendship, and trust in your companions. Even when they're out of sight. SHASSIE, Lassiet bromance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alba Prima (First Dawn)

**Author's Note:**

> _Welcome to my first Hurt/Comfort story: I'm a huge Whumper, and after reading islashlove fantastic fics I just can't help myself. I have no idea how long it will be: just know that there would be a lot of affection, drama, a bit of supernatural and a case in the way. Thanks for your support._

**I – Alba Prima**

**(First Dawn)**

Carlton opened his eyes, and the explosion still rumbled in his ears. 

He growled, thinking fast. Last thing he remembered was a pressure on his right shoulder: did they shoot him? But then why didn't he feel anything? 

He checked his body: no pain, no cold. Everything ready and operative, _but he was made of steel and blue eyes, Spencer always said._ Wait, O'Hara and Spencer, where were O'Hara and Spencer? 

_Damn._

He jumped on his knees, cursing. 

He was crouched on an expanse of concrete, air burning of sun and chemical smoke; near him, bunches of people were gathering around a crumbling building, scraped azure on the walls and churned oilcloth on the windows. He was out of the old factory, the explosion must have thrown him out; an ambulance's lights casted red and blue flashes on their faces. _Damn, this time I'll kill them both, I swear._ He got up, running toward the crowd; he didn't even have to flash his badge to untangle himself among legs and sweaty arms, but probably his pace was enough to clear the way. He didn't feel anything, he didn't think anything, just kept hearing in his head the possible tomorrow reports: _one detective and one consultant involved in the factory's gang shooting; one officer critical in hospital; operation aborted, two casualties._

He sped up his steps. 

_Two casualties._

Carlton finally came out on the first row, turned, scanned every inch of the scene: more concrete, oil spots, a herd of journalists with their fingers ready on the cameras, paramedics swarming near the gnarled doors of the building. And on the left side, a blond woman and a young man with a gaudy t-shirt. 

_Oh, thanks. Thanks._

He muttered one of his Grandma's prayer, scanning the couple: some scratches on O'Hara's forehead, _she would need some stitches_ , Spencer holding his elbow awkwardly; they both looked rather upset, even a little lost, but were alive and responsive. This time he would kill them, definitively. 

Before he could start to march on them someone rushed past him, unmistakable military pace echoing with high heels. Bad sign, the chief was there: it meant that there had been causalities among them. Damn. He hated when one of their, one of _his_ men paid in his place; that was not how it was supposed to work. He was the one to face the monsters, the one to lead his army and make sure they all would return home. _Damn_. 

It was about time he talked with someone. 

At a closer observation, O'Hara and Shawn didn't look dazed: they looked distraught, and he recognized all the shock symptoms. It was someone they knew? McNab? Guster? He _said_ the two idiots not to follow them. 

-Ehy, Spencer!- he called, reaching them. -O'Hara. What happened? You right?- Near them he felt better, more grounded, more focused. They were still all here: he could still touch and yell at them, and that was enough. 

_Provided that they noticed him_ . 

O'Hara was looking as the chief talk with the paramedics, eyes filled with the red-blue lights of the siren. Shawn was staring at him, but didn't say a thing: no “Lassie-pants”, no curse, no comment. No attempt to reach for him. 

_What. Had. Happened?_

-Spencer, look _at me_.- 

Nothing. 

He felt the world slowing. -Shawn.- 

-No, not him.- Spencer was whispering, hugging himself, like he was cold. - _Not him_.- 

Oh no. It was Guster. That stroke somewhere near the chest, but it wasn't the right time. _Watch, breath, act._ -Shawn, I know it's bad, but I'm here, okay? We'll all here, we can fix that thing, but I need information. Who is hurt?- 

Finally he lifted his head, and looked more like Shawn: scared to death, but within reach again. Carlton smiled before knowing it, _and not really caring_ , but Spencer's words didn't make any sense. 

-Gus.- he cracked. -Gus, you're here, thank God, buddy, I think I can use a hug right now.- 

Turning around, the detective saw Gus running toward them: worried, spotless and totally alive. 

_So no Gus, neither McNab._ Silently the pieces started to fall in place. 

-Shawn, Buzz just told me. Where is...- 

-He's in the ambulance.- Shawn shrugged again. -They're trying to stabilize him, but they said he had lost a lot of blood and that isn't good and...Oh God. Oh God.- 

A shrill suddenly run through the air, mxed with a muttered curse, and Juliet let out a gasp no person should make. He perfectly knew that sound: it was the background noise of their defeats, and of a lot of their victories. 

_They were losing him._

Shawn's face got chalk white, surreal like a paper mask, he hissed a “shit” and rushed past them, to the ambulance. Gus was behind him, brushing Lassiter's shoulder. He flinched, because he didn't miss Guster's whisper. “No way you're going away with this, dude. No way.” 

Carlton walked toward the others, catching lousy details, _anything_ that could stop the clicks in his head. _He was out of the building, but with no stains of fire_. 

He saw Juliet, slumped against the ambulance with her arms crossed, the chipped nail polish on her fingers, Chief's voice barking orders, Shawn's sneakers near Gus's cozy loafers. The wounded cop was behind the truck, paramedics buzzing around like bees, and he was still on the ground. He heard a buzz of defibrillators. 

_The body was one of theirs._

He drew nearer, and no one told him anything. The pieces were building up and he didn't want but they were _facts_ and he couldn't escape facts, couldn't stop trusting them. 

The body was a man, long limbs spread on the concrete; Carlton spotted a black leather shoe, dried blood over slender fingers. 

-Jesus Christ, still no heartbeat, and the blood doesn't stop.- 

-Charge to two hundred, now.- 

_It was someone close to O'Hara, and Shawn._

-Clear!- 

His eyes followed the body, up, up to the chest: the wound was a deep hole in the right shoulder, not far from the heart, _damn, it had struck an artery_. They had cut the shirt, _a nice light blue shirt_ , but the blood had already seeped through the fabric, on the jacket, on the skin. 

_He was someone that that morning stained his shirt with Guster's burrito._

Another discharge, a sob somewhere behind them, and all the pieces fell together. 

He rose his eyes, but didn't need to see to recognize that face. He saw it everyday, he had seen it growing to a man. 

-Oh God- he muttered. -It's _me_.- 


	2. Sub Caelum (Under the Sky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlton looks himself nearly die, Shawn and Jules face a difficult choice. Something crazy is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Here we are at the second chapter. I'm so happy for all your support: it's fundamental for me and my writing. Sorry for any mistakes. Longer piece, this time, but things begin to move. Hope you like it, write me if you have any doubt or advice._
> 
> _Enjoy, and thanks again._

**I -Sub Caelum**

**(Under the Sky)**

Carlton stood still, watching as his body died. 

_No no, that can't be, that_ can't be. 

It was curious how his mind kept lingering on the most inane details: it was a quite normal reaction to a shocking situation, he knew it, a way for the mind to hold on the world without imploding. He looked down and lazily noted the glossy glares dancing through his paramedic's hair, _catching light like cherry wood_ , and at the same time counted the seconds without beats. 

_Fifty._

In the background someone sobbed, praying and cursing together. The auburn-haired paramedic insulted him and his not collaborative heart, threw away the plates and started the manual CPR. Was he really _that_ pale? 

_One minute and twenty seconds._

O'Hara was crouched down on the concrete, digging her nails in Guster's shirt and not turning away from him, _no, not him, the body_ , for a single instant; Shawn was behind her, he wasn't breathing. That arm was swollen, he should really have it checked. 

_One minute and thirty seconds._

-Come on, badass.- the paramedic pushed on his chest, again, again. - _Come on_.- 

_Forty._

_Fifty._

_Sixty._

The shrill stopped, turning in a shaky beat. The auburn-haired woman sat down on her heels, let out a breath. -Okay, he's back. Anderson, catch me the emergency bandages and help me put him in the ambulance, I don't want the jackass slip away again.- 

And then, it finally sank in. 

_I nearly died._

_I saw myself nearly die._

His body jerked. His lips were bluish, blood pouring from the edges. -Fuck, he's in shock.- He watched the doctors applying their magic harasses around his body, glue and gauzes and electrodes and oxygen mask, his _ah, friend is such a banal word_ , his _people_ looking at them without breaking contact with the closer one. He knew he should do something, anything. He knew it well, but just couldn't do it, because for the first time since a long time, he had no control. Because what are you supposed to do, when facts didn't _make any sense?_

And things were so damn fast. 

_Calm down, detective, calm down. Maybe you hit your head harder than you think, and now you're hallucinating. Or it can be a pre-death experience, or some other new age crap. Or you're just dreaming, and in no time the alarm would start ringing and Shawn would get up with you complaining all the way to the kitchen and O'Hara would chasing you for the unfinished McLannon report and then make him laugh with the precinct gossips._

Or maybe he was really dying, and he was simply slipping away. 

He stared at his hands, slowly. He should feel cold, or weak, but he didn't feel neither. He didn't feel _anything_ : no heartbeat, no breath, no sun warmth or sticky air on the skin. Just like he wasn't there. 

His hands _couldn't_ shake. 

-I, I pick up the car and go to the hospital.- O'Hara slowly got up, face hard under the messy makeup, while the nurses loaded his body on the truck. -Shawn, you go with Gus?- 

But Spencer was still, and on his face was the only expression Carlton never wanted to see. Fear, and restlessness. The kind ready to turn and run over everyone. He fell back. -I, I can't do it, guys. Sorry, but it's, it's just too much. Sorry. Sorry.- 

Juliet widened her eyes. -What?- 

Spencer, _Shawn_ , looked at her, and the look was scared and mean and old. -I won't go, Jules. Not-not now. I'm sorry, but it's...it's not how I work.- 

-Well, guess what, Shawn? That's not about you being ready.- O'Hara spatted the words, fingers digging in the palms, trembling. -In that ambulance there's my best friend bleeding to death, and I'm not even sure he would still be here when I'll get to the hospital, and _damn sure_ I'm not ready for it. But I'll be there, the _whole fucking time_. So now move your ass and come with us.- 

-To do what, eh, Jules?- Shawn hissed. -Holding his hand and crying like a lousy Broadway starlet? I remember everything, _everything_ , and I won't remember Lassie like that. I won't...- The grin faltered. 

-...I won't see him going like that.- 

And then he turned, _not shivering, not wavering_ , just going. Carlton blinked, enraged and not knowing why. 

In the background, Vick's voice. _Okay, O'Hara, you take Lassiter's car and go to the hospital, Guster, find your friend, McNeab, you're with me, now._

He really couldn't understand. It wasn't just Spencer's words, _dissect the problems, sort them in little sections, breath_ , it was the anger behind them. 

Shaw was defeated. The defeat was _him._

_But I'm here, for Christ's sake._ I'm here. 

_For now._

His mind started racing again. 

Maybe he wasn't really there. His body, the body he used to shoot with and run and _touch_ , was a crumpled mess of flesh. _Oh God_ , maybe I'm already lost, _oh my God,_ and they won't ever know, won't ever know all that I want to say them. 

_Oh God, no._

He ran forward, past the sirens and the blood stains on the concrete, chasing Shawn: he could see his absurd ash-greasy hair, the leather jacket he chronically forgot at his place. _I'm here_. -Shawn!- he cried -Shawn, it's me, it's me.- But then the hair and the leather jacket vanished in the crowd, and he couldn't find them, and yet there was no time to think, no time to regret, and so up again, running, leaning over O'Hara and the mask of white and streaked black of her face. -O'Hara, look at me.- 

She kept crying. 

-O'Hara, come on, I'm right here!- 

He _did not_ want to hear what she's whispering. Turned. 

-Guster!- 

-Chief!- 

-McNeab!- He kept racing, calling to everybody he knew, cursing, hoping they did something, _anything_ that said him he was alive and that crap was _just a damn trip._ And everybody fell through his fingers like sand. Guster. Vick. McNeab. And finally O'Hara got up, and he had, _had_ to try another time. There were so many things he wanted say her. 

_O'Hara, I left your blueberry bars in the third drawer of the desk._

_O'Hara, I'm sorry for being such a pain in the ass._

_Partner, I'm scared._

He stretched his hand, they never touched. She slipped, and run to his car, and was gone. 

He stayed there and pleaded for the same two words she whispered leaving. 

_Don't go._

Time was flowing in a funny way. The whole scene had lasted five, seven minutes at best, but it had seemed to stretch on a ridiculous overexposed eternity. Now the ambulance and the cars and the cops were far, _sirens screaming and screaming and screaming_ , and he didn't have had the time to blink. 

_Maybe this is how it ends. Maybe death is living this moment, again and again._

He winced. No, no, he couldn't think it, because if he thought it it would risk to be real, and he wasn't ready for that. 

_I won't remember Lassie like that._

Facts, he needed _facts_. No one saw him so far, but maybe there is an explanation, maybe they were all in shock and didn't understand; so someone else should be able to do it, and explain him what the hell had happened. And about the body? 

_Facts._

He spun around, avanzando toward the crowd. The crops of people were scattering, someone rumoring, someone taking photos, someone else staring with the dull fascination of who didn't catch all he was seeing but wouldn't lose a thing. He tried to _feel_ the crowd, the smell of polyester and sweat under hot sun, didn't feel anything, moved forward. 

-Gentlemen, please.- His cop voice stretched over the sea of heads. -Gentlemen, please, I'm Detective Carlton Lassiter, and I need you to listen carefully.- 

No reaction. A pig-tailed little girl pulled her mother's blouse, moaning. 

He swore. -Gentlemen! Listen to me!- 

A woman crying softly, middle-aged men whispering over their Hawaiian t-shirts, _Christ, have you seen it?_

-Hey. For God's sake, shut up a moment and listen to me!- 

_He's a man, he's been shot by that guy with the red pick-up._

_Man, there was so much blood._

-Listen to me! Listen _to me_!- 

Shaking heads, grimaces _, No, not a lot of chances._

-Listen, I really need to...- 

_He was a lost fight._

-I...- 

_A lost fight_ . 

-... _please_ -. 

It was then that he saw her. A tall girl, standing about five feet away and monkeying with a large golden earring. She wore a pair of jeans, a Batman T-shirt and a tangle of sandy hair. 

And she was staring right at him. 

-Ehy, you!- Lassie jumped ahead, leaving the crowd, leaving the Hawaiian-shirted men and their words. -You, the girl up there.- 

She turned away, but the movement was too fast to be convincing. He was skilled enough in human ways of lying. 

-Listen, kid, don't worry: I'm a detective, I got caught in the explosion. My...- he bitted his lip, the briefest moment -...my colleagues are still in shock and I think something is not right, and I need someone who saw what happened. Okay?- 

The girl's shoulders jerked as if he slapped her. She rubbed her eyes, cursing in an expressive, dry language. -Go away- she murmured. 

Carlton frowned. He had no time, he had no time at all. But at least, this was something he knew how to deal with: a grumpy teenager, probably shaken by the violence and the blood and by real life suddenly becoming a punch in the stomach. _Stick to facts, Lassiter_. 

-Ehy, I know this is pretty messy, but don't worry, okay? I'm one of the good guy, I swear.- 

The girl cursed again, cast him a glare that burned all the way through his ribs, and run off. 

_Oh no, don't you dare._

He took after her. 

It was not a real run, and his was not a real chasing: she just kept strolling among kids and fire workers, latecoming reporters e hobos casually crashing there, legs speeding with a poorly-repressed agitation. 

-Calm down!- he shouted. -Ehy, _calm down_! I could charge you per obstructionism and I've already have a crappy day, so stop.- 

She murmured something under her breath. 

How she dared? How she _dared_ not paying attention? _He had no time, he had no time, Christ._

No time before the ambulance arrived and Shawn got really away and then, _then_. 

_He had no time._

Carlton stopped, teeth clenched. 

-Ehy- he growled. - _Ehy_! I don't know if you have problems with cops and honestly don't give a damn, but this is a police officer asking you to collaborate and I _really_ need you to stop, okay?- A pause. 

- _Please_.- 

That single word froze the girl on the spot. He stared at her head as she shivered, turned in a twist. -Go away.- she hissed. - _Go away_.- 

She was panting hard. Trembling, but not from fear. 

Lassiter frowned. It was from _hatred._

_Calm down, close your eyes, act._ -Look, I know you're shocked, but I'll only ask some information and I'll be gone, I swear.- He went forward, slowly, hands spread before him. She didn't back. 

-No, no, you shouldn't be here, okay? No one of _you_ should be here. I wouldn't do this again, you betcha, so go away. Leave me alone. _Ci mancava il poliziotto, cazzo_.- 

_Act_ . 

-Kid, I wouldn't ask you anything more, but I need you to help me. Now.- 

The girl took a step behind. -You really don't know- she whispered. – you really don't know what _you are_.- 

There was something in her voice. It couldn't be pity: pity was bad, pity meant dying friends or dying love or dying you, so it just _couldn't be_. -What do you mean?- 

-Okay, I'm really, really sorry for you, but I, I can't do it this time.- Another step. -Not again. I promised. I promised.- 

Too late he knew it was a getaway. She swirled around, dashing through the crowd in a heap of fabric and golden sprinkles. He looked around wildly, felt the urge to cry, cursed because of it and because of the time and because _he couldn't do it_. 

That morning he was eating a bagel. He was eating a bagel in a gashy cafeteria with Spencer and his grinder-like best friend, arguing about laundry and reality shows; laundry and reality shows, _for Christ's sak_ e. 

But world works like that. Pain, fear, chaos just splattered over you, without warning. It took a second to get shot in the head, it took less than a minute to phone a victim's family and shatter a life. 

_Less than a minute,_ clear, _less than a minute,_ we're losing him _._

_Calm down._ Carlton pressed the hands against his face, hard. _Think, open your eyes, act._

He needed to find O'Hara. He needed to find her, find O'Hara so she would explain everything and call Spencer and tell Carlton how dense he had been while brushing his cheek. So find them, the car, the ambulance, ambulance, hospital. 

_Go to the hospital. Go to the hospital._

He straightened up, closed his eyes, visualize the three fastest ways to the hospital. And run forward. 

_Go to the hospital. Go to O'Hara. I have no time._

Behind him, silvery clouds rolled on. 


	3. Occidens (West)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlton arrives at the hospital; everything gets way too real. The mistery girl gives some explanations.

**III – Occidens**

**(West)**

He was at the hospital; he didn't know how, but he was at the hospital. The trip was a blur of lights and wind an colors, no sounds and no sensations, and he was neither running nor walking but simply, simply _moving_. But that wasn't important right now. 

_Think, breath, act._

He checked his jacket, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve. He walked past the whispers of the sliding doors, across bunches of hunging heads and past the acceptance counter. He didn't need indications: every cop in active service had been in hospital, either to check one of his men or not to die himself. And despite all his charades, Carlton remembered perfectly almost every time he was there. There had been the shooting at the Fish Stockage, where Rodriguez got shot getting behind him, the car accident when he accompanied in ambulance a broken-armed and very pissed O'Hara, the stupid chase ended with McNab under painkillers and his wife crying and screaming to them both. But every time, at least, he had been in the center of the events; scared, furious, but fully able to understand what happened, or at least barking and sending men and making living hell until he could prevent things from going even more down hill. At least, he had been _here_ , with people to be angry at or to ask blunty how bad were things. But this, this was different, and to think clearly again and find a solution he needed to go and find his people. He needed to be again in the center of the storm, before even try to think. So go along the corridor, _do not think,_ take the elevator, _do no think._ And again he was at the right floor without remembering it, and he turned, and he saw the advise Intensive Care, big green letters painted on the double doors. He had to take less than five steps in the aisle, before seeing her. 

O'Hara was slumped in a chair, hair a tangle of blond chucks and eyes a puffy mess. She still wore the churnished jacket of that morning, had peeled off her shoes. She kept staring at something in front of her. At a closer inspection, she kept _not_ staring at anything else. 

-O'Hara. O'Hara, we need to talk. This is just pure crazy.- 

She didn't answer. _Not think, Lassiter_. 

He was in front of her, and felt better. It was the right word: Juliet was the person who made him better even when he was scared to hell. Not overjoyed, not immortal, but _better_ : high enough over the water to keep breathing. Enough not to slip. 

_They both were together. They would figure it out._

-O'Hara.- 

She kept staring. Suddenly, like a clockwork clicking on, she started to sob, hard. 

_No. No no no._

-O'Hara. O'Hara, it's only the shock.- He bent in front of her. -Stop it. Please stop it.- 

She gulped again: the mascara was carving black streaks on her cheeks, and this was not good, _so_ not good. 

_It's only the shock,_ but the body had been there, _it's only the shock._

_So why aren't you touching her?_

A clacking of heels came behind them. The chief stopped beside O'Hara, sat stiffly on one of the chairs. She breathed like they taught you in the academy, deep and slow, _before screaming or throwing up_. 

-How's he going?- 

-Not sure about this. The docs threw in a lot of “if” and “but”, but basically they said they don't have a damn idea about it. The bullet cut the subclavian artery, he lost tons of blood. They don't know.-She turned, brushing awkwardly O'Hara's arm. -I'm really sorry, detective.- 

His partner nodded mechanically, brushed her eyes and absurdly enough, the only thing he would like to do was handing her his napkin, _dammit O'Hara, you still don' buy Kleenex?_. Her voice was a whisper. 

-Carlton.- 

And there, something snapped. Something cracked, back in the end of his mind, and the fear kicked in. Blowing. Raging. 

_Not think, not think not think not think._

-They're still looking for a compatible blood match, but it's not easy. Spencer?- 

-I called him, he turned off the phone. I just hoped he would come, if. If something happened.- 

Carlton Lassiter wavered back, lips slighty parted. Slowly, the world around him stood out. 

Officers, officers and doctors, McNab talking with a nurse. The surgery double doors down the aisle, streaks of blood on the floor tiles. 

_They're talking of you. You were the body._

_You're not working it out, because you're not really here._

Carlton saw the resigned lines around his chief's eyes, his partner's hunched back, preparing for breaking, for _mourning_ , and got furious. With them with the world with that leather jacket going away, the burning ice fury that he hadn't felt since he was twelve years old. 

He had imagined this scene. _Hell_ , he had imagined five different versions of it, with the words they should say and the last moments they would share, O'Hara's shoulders protecting his bed and Spencer's hand brushing his own. But this, this was _all wrong_. All totally wrong, and he didn't deserve it, he never did wrong. 

_Not with them. Don't with Dad._

-O'Hara, stop.- he ordered. 

She was crying for him, not seeing him. _So wrong._

-O'Hara, stop.- He knelt in front of her, grabbing the chair and searching her eyes, her strong wise eyes. But she lowered her head, muttering curses and prayers. 

_Fact, my partner doesn't see me. Fact, I'm not here._

_Facts facts facts._

He swore. -O'Hara, shut the Hell up.- He hated her, wanted to shake her, _hug her_. - _Shut the hell up_.- 

Suddenly, a rustle of persons and orders and scrubs slipping in place rushed past them, toward the double doors. Shouted words reached them. 

_Emergency. Flat lined. Call McDonnell._

O'Hara shot up, looking older and younger than ever before. -Oh God. It's him. It's him.- She dashed forward. 

Carlton opened his mouth, felt something close to panic. Something that was a step behind fear, all the world sucked in a single question. 

_I'm dying. I'm dead._

_If she goes, what will happen?_

-No, no, it's all wrong.- He jumped upward, following her. 

How can she be so dull. How can't she see how _scared he was_. 

-I'm here, I'm here, I'm not gone.- 

-Shit.- The chief was up too, talking fast to O'Hara. - _Shit_. They have to give me one hell of explanation this time.- 

-I go there.- O'Hara gulped, and she _didn't understand didn't understand_. -I go.- 

_What will happen?_

-O'Hara, stop it!- Carlton cried, felt his voice crack. -Stop it!- 

_Don't leave me, God don't leave me like this._

He had no time. He threw one arm toward her, not knowing what would happen, not giving a damn. 

_Please._

And she stopped. For the briefest moment, for the time of a breath or a tactical hesitation, she stopped. Her head up, her shoulders striaghtened to catch everything, to hold her breath. 

For a moment, she waited for him. 

_O'Hara._

Then the moment passed, and she was running along the corridor with the chief and McNab and all the world's sense. 

Carlton stayed there, an arm lifted in the air. 

_Dad's pick up was far, an orange spot in the snow. He didn't stop to wave._

-I'm here.- he whispered, but there was no one. 

The funny thing was, Carlton had really imagined his death. Programmed it, it's more likely. At the beginning it had been a glory fantasy, with shotguns shooting across the cemetery's sky and virile speeches about his boldness and skills. Then O'Hara stepped in, walking smoothly over her absurd heels, and Shawn kissed him, and suddenly Carlton had to admit that his departure wouldn't be a so clean job. That there would be pain, and regret, and that all he could do was leaving them with less crap possible. He had programmed to say them farewell. To slip away in a fast way. No smudges, a well-directed exit. It had been comforting. Creepy but comforting. 

_How stupid._

Carlton stared at the hospital garden, sitting awkwardly on the steps. Santa Barbara was lazily slipping in the twilight, rose and azure and violet quivering over burning streets. It was the best time of the day, when the air smelled of fresh and concrete and going around with a suit didn't seem so dumb anymore. Or so he supposed, because right now he was neither hot nor cold. The wind didn't brush his skin, the plant spores didn't tickle his grass allergy. The steps were not uncomfortable, simply because he didn't feel them. He didn't feel anything. 

And somewhere in the building beind him, he was dying. 

After O'Hara left, Carlton had started screaming. Not shouting by impatience, but _screaming_ , the way kids and very scared people do. Calling her, the leather jacket, cursing both, running across the hospital, up the stairs, down the stairs, trying to show the world that _see, he was still there_. But breakdowns are kind of pointless when you don't have a body to wear off and so at some point he just stopped and found himself here, in front of his beloved city. And sit to wait. Wait what, it wasn't important. 

He sighed. Maybe, maybe it was a pre-death experience. Some chemical imbalance, neurons coping, swirling in their blood nests. _Dying._

He looked down at his hands. As before, they weren't shaking. 

_Crap._

It shouldn't happen. You are alive, you are dead. _Feeling_ dead, well, it was so wrong. Death is not a noble or charming thing, but still he had come to know it. Brushed it more than once, understood its times and its rituals. He was prepared, had _a plan_. Not for this to happen. 

And _now,_ besides. Now that everything was getting scary and exciting and real. Now that he and O'Hara had still to organize the Reenactment Ball of the PD. Now that Shawn looked at him that way, and he had begun to buy the Tropical Shampoo along with his own. The shampoo thing hurt more like anything else. 

_Shawn's shampoo on his drawer and the smell of his hair and the look in his eyes when he turned and dashed away._

_Oh, Gosh._

He shivered, sinking his head between the knees. 

Maybe, maybe still a second, and he would be gone. Zero cerebral waves, call the decease. Oh, how would he like to talk to O'Hara right now. She would snivel all the time, but wouldn't miss a word. 

_I don't want to die like this. I don't want to die, O'Hara._

He hugged himself tighter. Let out a sound he wouldn't ever dare to let, the one you had when losing a leg or a limb. 

It was then that he heard steps behind him. Squeaking, sneakers-like steps that stopped just before the stairs. 

For a moment he thought of Shawn. 

_He has come. He has seen me._

-Oh, crap.- 

He closed his eyes, because it was a girl's voice. 

_You're a fool, Carlton Lassiter._

Still by pure habit he turned, and repressed a curse. It was the girl from the accident, the one who fled. The one who _saw him_. And was currently staring. 

For a bunch of seconds, they didn't say a word. Just stared at each other, ready to jump or retreat at the faintest alarm. She had brownish, tangled hair, cut over the shoulders, so much mascara he too saw it. Dark circles under the eyes, no more than twenty. 

He wondered briefly what she was seeing. 

_Not important. Not fundamental. Skip to the real thing, Carlton._

Because whatever she was seeing, he could see in her eyes. Anger, a streak of pity. _Cognition._

-What is happening?- he asked quietly. 

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. -I think we should start from the beginning. Can I sit down?- 

-No. What is happening?- 

She gave him a troubled look. -Listen, I'm sorry for having left you there. Seriously. But I couldn't begin it again. I can't do it anymore.- 

He didn't understand, but she was talking to him. He talked, she answered. And if he could do it, he could make her talk. He slipped in his interrogation voice before knowing it. 

-Then why you came.- 

-I had to have some tests here and I, I felt guilty.- 

-Why?- 

-Because I coud know what is happening. Can I sit?- 

He sighed. -Yes.- 

She sit down, looked at the city with stiff interest. They stayed in silence, just two persons enjoying the breeze out of the hospital. So perfectly abnormal. 

-Why no one could see me?- 

-Because you're not exactly here. Or in any other place, for that matter.- 

-Bullshit. The truth.- 

A hint of annoyance. -I just told you.- 

_O'Hara, Spencer. He didn't turn, she did. For a million of other reasons._

-So I'm dead?- 

-I'm, well, I'm not sure, but it's possible.- She gave him the quickest look. -It's probable.- 

_I don't want to die, O'Hara_ . 

-No, listen, no. That just doesn't make any sense. It, it's not how it works.- 

-Well, sometimes yes. You got stucked, detective. Not before the line, not beyond it. Still here, but not as before.- 

He unfolded his body, straightening. Not before the line, not beyond it. Seeing everything, just from a wrong angle. 

Just out of sight. 

_Oh Christ. It makes sense._

-Are, are you saying I'm a freakin' ghost?- 

-Not exactly.- 

He let out a laugh, a limped thing that died halfway in the throat. 

-Oh, perfect. I'm a ghost. A ghost, for Christ's sake. - No, no wait Carlton. It couldn't be, there are other possibilities, it couldn't be or this thing would eat us. _Attack. Attack, and she wouldn't talk again._ \- Well, thanks for nothing, but I think I should have known better. You, you're one of those goth weirdos, right? I knew you were off.- 

Her eyes widened in disbelief, and his mind knew it was an excuse, _it knew perfectly_. -What? No, I'm...- 

-No, no, it must be like this, I'm confused and you're playing with me and are one of...of them. Right?- He shot up, ready to go. 

_Go where, detective?_

She didn't move. No magic suddenly snapped, no one returned him his realm. 

His voice became a whisper. 

-Please.- _Go where, detective?_ -Please tell me I'm right.- 

She stared at him, and in her eyes was all the sadness of the earth. -This is really happening, detective. I know it, because I saw it other times.- 

_Where, detective?_ -But it, it...- 

Two voices suddenly echoed near them, behind the large glass doors; shuffling of nurse shoes. She stood abruptly, turning with the violence of very skilled cops or very frightened people. The steps fluttered far but she bitted her lip, looked him. Earnestly, coldly. 

-Shit. Listen, I'm sorry, but I have to go.- She run a hand across her hair. -People could see me, I can't stay. They can't find me here. I promised. I'm sorry.- 

She was going to run. To disappear again. 

_Breath, act._

Carlton stiffened _._ -What- he blurted out. - No, no, you can't go. Not after that.- 

-I'm sorry.- 

-No, you can't. You can't. It is...- He opened his mouth, got out nothing, and found himself saying the first and truest insult he had ever used. -It is _unfair_.- 

-You don't understand.- She backed from him, warily. - They can't see me talking alone, all would be fucked up. I'm sorry.- 

She stepped across the door. 

_Like O'Hara, like Shawn. Oh God, no, not again._ -Wait, no, I don't- 

He tossed his hand forward, clasped it around her wrist. 

And the world screamed. 

It didn't really hurt; it didn't really happen anything. But the world cracked, right on their laced hands and hundred of dead endless voices cried and the fabric of matter shivered, _life and death, clouds and clouds rolling over_ , streams of beatless grey swirming around as _flesh_ and _nothing_ clashed and they shouldn't clash not because it was wrong but because it was unthinkable, it was inexpressible. He felt the decay, the hopeless cold worming among the living like a contagion, realized it was _him_ , cried for a million years. 

Carlton pulled back his fingers, slowly. The aisle reappeared. They stared at each other, knowing what the other saw, sure they couldn't turn back. 

-You can't go.- 

-No.- The girl said. -No I can't.- 


	4. Comites - (Alleys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I'm working on a one-shot that is taking a time between forever and forever and half: you know when a project just haunts you and you can't think about anything else in the creative field? Exactly that. Anyway, here's the forth chapter: this time, Jules and Shawn. Shawn's fans, please, don't kill me: just wait for iiit...  
> Thanks for your support, as always.  
> P.S.: The word “Comites” meant something between “mates”, “partners” and “alleys”: very tricky, but I like the ambiguity.

**IV – Comites**

**(Alleys)**

He had decided to go to his father's home almost instantly. 

He had not even tried to get back to his flat. Just ignored Gus's attempts to talk, staring at the half-glued stickers on the front glass. Pointedly, carefully, because _not staring meant thinking and that was not good_. The Blueberry purred under him, the questions rose and were promptly stuffed back. Kept breathing. 

When his dad opened the door he miraculously didn't ask awkward questions and restricted himself to querys that didn't require more than five words-answers. He asked if there had been an accident; yet it had, was he hurt, no not really, had it been crappy, yeah thanks pretty crappy. Then he had walked in, declining a beer and fully knowing that Gus would spill the beans in the next twenty seconds. He suddenly had to pee, went to the upstair bathroom. And in that moment, with one hand on the seat of his dad's toilet, Shawn Spencer suddenly thought that right now he could be in a world without Carlton Lassiter, and the remains of his lunch ended in the WC. 

Then time passed; he cleaned himself, washed his mouth, sit on the couch. Shawn felt thirsty; even tired, the forehead bruises mildly aching. 

And nothing else. 

It wasn't like he didn't understand, or he didn't care: it was just that he didn't _work_ with tragedies. He was pathetical and pretty useless in that kind of situations: emergencies, wild guesses, everytime you had to understand something or find a way out or _just act_ yes, he was your man, but not when all you could do was sit and morne. Hey, if you pick Bugs Bunny and soak him in sighs and regrets he's not Bugs Bunny anymore, he's just a sad rabbit with a kink for carrots. 

And Carlton was the same: it was why they actually functioned in their disfuctional way. They pushed hard, pulled the other back, clashing clumsily as if they had all the time of the world to make it up. If one of them cried, if one of them said that they're not really indestructible and they couldn't jump back up then _bang_ , the balance is broken, they are alone again. They wouldn't be anymore Bugs Bunny and Duffy, or Sylvester Pussycat or whatever gay version you want. 

And he didn't want it. _Lassie_ wouldn't want it. 

He saw for a moment Jules' face, the sheer betrayal in her eyes. __

_Ah, quit the crap, Spencer._ You _don't want it._

He saw the cordless sitting on the coffee table. Jules number was easy, the last four digits being his birthday. 

He didn't move. 

He heard a shuffle of shoes behind him. Clacking leather, so they must be his dad's absurd sandals. He was vaguely aware of Gus having left some time before, but he wasn't sure. 

The steps stopped behind the couch. 

-Ehy.- 

-Ehy.- 

-I'm making pancakes.- 

Shawn shifted on the cushions, not repressing a smirk. Ah, bad sign. Henry embraced his sweet tooth and cooked pancakes for dinner only in times of great crysis. They had ate them the day Mom left, when Uncle Jack punched Pope at the Thanskiving Day and the last evening Shawn spent at home, before throwing in a bag a bunch of clothes and cash and fleeing for the next ten years. 

Henry knew everything, of course. __

_Bad, bad sign._

-Ah, thanks Pope, but I'm- _I was passionately hugging your toilet not so long ago?_ -I'm not very hungry right now.- 

-Ah. Sure. Okay.- 

Silence. Shawn was deliberately staring at his Dad's hairy calves, but he could almost _smell_ the unease hovering around him. 

He sighed. -Gus spilled it all, right?- 

-He endured up to fifteen seconds.- 

-That's my man.- 

The room was awfully quiet. Butter-like light poured from the kitchen on the floor tiles. 

-How are you, Shawn?- 

He cringed. Tricky question: answering “fine” would be dumb, because his father would sense the lie in less than a micro-second. He needed something plausible but not too alarming. 

-I...I don't know what I'm feeling.- 

-Bullshit, kid. You may not like what you feel, but you _know_ it damn well.- 

-Mmm.- 

Henry dropped on the couch next to him, turned on the lamp near the television. Waited. 

-Shawn, why are you not with Carlton?- 

Oh God, yes, Henry _knew_ about them, now he remembered. It had been a tragic mistake involving the petting zoo and his phone's battery, but he couldn't recall the details. Only that it ended with a very purple Carlton, cheeks so red he had to kiss those pouting lips on his doorstep. __

_Face bleached white, blue lips smeared with red._

He sank his head between his knees, gritting teeth. 

-Pope, can't we just pretend to have already had the Comforting- Scolding Talk and proceed? _Please_.- 

-I'm not gonna saying anything like that, kid. And I won't force you to do anything. Surely _that_ wouldn't make me disappointed.- Henry's shirt stretched on the cushion. - But nevertheless, I need to say something.- 

He knew what he needed to say. __

_Shawn, it's hard but it is life, Shawn, if you want this job you better get used to it._

_Shawn, at least now you could stop joking and find a nice suitable girl._

-Seriously, Dad, I don't want to hear it.- 

-Shawn...- 

-Dad...- He pressed his hands on the temples, hard. _-_ Stop it _.-_

-I...- 

- _Please.-_

For a moment Shawn almost thought he had won, that his father was leaving. Then came an hard sigh. 

-I was just going to say that you _want_ to stay with him.- 

Shawn looked up abruptly; Henry had straightened, staring intently at the window. Not a clue about his words. 

-What?- 

-You don't want to let him go like this. Now you think it's not a good move and that you going all freaked won't be of any use and this is absolutely true, because right now nothing you could do would help him.- He sighed again, stared down at his hands. He never seemed so old. -But if you don't go and that is the last chance to stay with him, to see him even just _breathe_ , you'll regret it for all your life. 

You're both good guys, _good men_. Neither of you deserve it.- 

Shawn blinked, because his Dad was now watching him. No calculation, for a change. Something too soft in his eyes. __

_He was serious. Oh God, he was serious._

And for some reason he felt his throat tight, like suddenly there was no more oxigen in the whole world. __

_His damn blessing. Oh, Carlton would be_ so _pleased._

For a moment, Shawn was about to tell him everything, that he had thrown up after a simple thought and that he couldn't go and that he wanted to still be Bugs Bunny. But he couldn't breathe, and you need oxigen even to be brave. 

Henry widened his eyes like he had suddenly realized to have been nearly human for a whole minute, and yet didn't totally regret it. In pure Henry's style, he patted awkwardly Shawn's back. 

-I go pick pancakes.- 

Juliet O'Hara was sitting for the first time in several hours. She was slumped on a chair in the IC corridor, near the end enough not to be in the way and not enough to feel the silence. Until that moment she had drafted her report, called the PD artificer squad to know the news, sent McNab to the precinct to collect all the case's files. __

_Jim Polokov, fourty years, boss of the White Hand Gang. Big drug load expected for Thursday the fifth, Shawn found the location. Stop sobbing like a little girl, McNab._

She had talked with the chief, listened carefully to the docs. Gone to the fourth room on the right, brushed her fingers against the double-glass. __

_Damn, Carlton, what a bad day._

Now she untied her seven-hinch pumps, slowly. The crazy thing was, that it hadn't even been a _so_ dangerous operation; not for their canons, however. She had expected to end in this aisle almost every day of her career, but not today, and somehow this made everything look even more unjust. Her best friend had flat-lined three times, she was alone, _no, she was the only one_ waiting here, and then there had been that moment. That second near the op rooms, when something changed in the air and she _just had_ to stop: not knowing why, just obeying her skin, like you do to dodge a bullet or to listen to a familiar voice. Feeling the same ringing in her ears. 

Detective O'Hara kicked away one shoe, feeling like she was falling hard and at speedlight. __

_What a bad day. I can't breathe. What a_ bad day _._

A cola suddenly appeared at the brim of her sight. Bobbing gently against her shoulder. 

-There. I've tried to find a Diet Coke, but there was only that.- 

She looked up. Burton was standing near her chair, smile stiff on his lips. He was pale and the blue shirt was wrinkled over the belt, but it was clean. _Oh, yeah, he wasn't there. He wasn't there._ The sudden anger nearly took off her breath. 

-Gus. W-what are you doing here? Shawn?- 

-He's with Henry.- 

He looked for something to say, found nothing. 

-What about Carlton?- 

She rested her head against the wall. She had talked with almost no pause for the previous two hours, and still now her mouth felt like concrete. How funny. 

-Still critical. Something, something about the subclavian artery, I don't know. - _oh no you know, you know perfectly, every darn word of that chart_ \- Maybe you could give a look, later?- 

-Sure thing.- 

They stayed in silence. Juliet closed her eyes for a moment, Burton didn't sit down. The speaker cracked something about an emergency puke at the third floor. 

She swallowed. -He won't come, will he?-. 

Gus flinched, talking in that high-pitched squeak she usually found so sweet and now left her absolutely indifferent. 

He wasn't there, Shawn isn't here _no one but me is here._

-It's complicated.- 

-It's pretty simple I think.- 

-Jules, listen, I've known him for ages. He, he doesn't do well with these things. After all that happened to him...- 

And there she snapped. Juliet found herself standing, blood pumping in her head so hard it hurt. -What, for example, _what_? He has a father, a mother, a best friend, it doesn't seem so horrible.- She took a step forward, saw him wince. -I'm the one with the fucked up family, I'm the one with trust issues but I'm _here_.- 

-I understand, but really, it's different...- 

-No Gus, it's not fuckin' different. I can go with any crap Shawn come with, you know it, but he _chose_ Carlton. It's not like he was the freakish cousin crashed on your doorstep, he was the one he chose, the one he chose instead of the bank guy or the pub girl that gets scared when the counter turns off and almost unerringly comes home every day. We _chose_ him, and so now we must be here.- She couldn't breathe. _How you dare, Shawn Spencer. How you dare let me here, alone._ -And right now I don't give a damn about your friend's feelings.- 

She turned, leaning on the opposite wall. Inhaling deeply like Carlton said. _Breathe, think, act._

God it wasn't working. 

She had expected Gus to leave, more or less definitively: they were defending their own best buddies, it was a doomed short circuit. Instead, his loafers pattered nearer. 

-What about you, Jules?- 

-Sorry?- She turned, for a good half actually lost. 

-How are _you_ , Jules.- 

His voice was low. His eyes so warm, _sweetly, cliché-like_ warm. 

-I...- Gosh, she honestly didn't know. How stupid. -I...- 

She passed a hand through her hair, found bits of ash, of Carlton's blood. Her heart broke. 

-I'm _disheveled_.- 

And when the tears began, Gus was hugging her. 


	5. Clari Loci - (The Clear Places)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Lassie and his new relunctant guide, to find the trigger to pass away. Obviously, it doesn't work this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the fifth chapter. I'm so, so very sorry for the delay guys: and I would never thank you enough for your support (your favs speed up my ego like nothing else). The sixth chap is well on its way (fore real, this time), so I'll try to update rather quickly. Moreover, on Halloween I'll publish a little Psych madness I deeply enjoy writing (and that I hope would be enjoyable for you too). Now, about the present chap, we are back with Lassie and the mysterious girl. I stopped several times squeaking “Oh Gosh poor little cutie” while writing, but being emotional with my own stories is a fancy talent.   
> If you like, I've made some Psych fan arts on my DA profile, and an alternative OOS cover. Check it out.  
> P.S.: The gun and bullet' names are totally fictional.

**V - Clari Loci**

**(The Clear Places)**

During the night at the hospital, Carlton Lassiter discovered three things. 

First, he couldn't touch anything, on pain of a sickening feeling of frosty bugs crawling on his arm and little to no effect. Second, he couldn't pass through the walls, _yes he had been dumb enough to try._

Three, O'Hara had sit in the same place for almost the whole time. 

He had watched her from the corridor, through the shutters of his room's window. He had seen her eating half an M &M's packet, threatening a sleepy newbie on the door and collapse on the chair at the room's corner. She had ended up snoozing with her head at the most painful angle ever and a trick of drool down the chin. It had been the most harrowing thing he had ever seen. 

He had also talked with the girl; better, she had talked. She had said her name was Francesca Ermete; she was Italian but her parents had recently transferred to Los Angeles, _so that explained the strange articulated stress she talked with_. She was twenty, well-mannered and with the strangest way to mix crudity and Latinisms in the same sentence. She didn't say anything else about herself; Carlton had to confess he was not in the spirit to investigate further. 

After the touch, _no Lassiter don't think about it focus focus_ , they had just sit there for some time; simply content not to be alone and that the world had not collapsed in a twirl of clouds and madness. But like shock bewilderment has a finite vita, after which a human mind just stuffs the incredible in her archive and keeps working; deciding that if it doesn't hurt it could be managed. 

So, it was mostly mechanics what made Carlton asking what he was supposed to do now. 

_You're not dead, but you're stuck, Detective Lassiter. Something is preventing you from passing the line._

_Line? Is it just a line?_

_Yes, why not. Death is not flossy, detective._

So, he had looked hard at the vending machine and thought why he didn't die properly. He had wondered if it was because he didn't bid farewell to some important persons in his life. The girl had laughed, saying that if every loved person wouldn't pass away then the world would be a big Starbucks for ghosts. There should be something unresolved, a lapse that for some reason was intolerable. 

He had thought about O'Hara's bars, Shawn's stereo receipt still crumpled in his trousers pocket. He couldn't speak for thirteen seconds. 

_You should reach down in your memory, detective. Thinking about a place, a person, a light. Anything that could still have a piece of you._

_And when I'll find the lapse what would happen?_

_You. You'll be free_ . 

No one of them had the bravery to look at the other. 

So, now he and he girl were at the warehouse, and dawn was casting streaks of light on the burned concrete. Francesca had said the best place to begin was the one when he was alive, _really alive_ , for the last time. Rewind time, see the crime scene to know the victim. It made sense to him. 

Carlton took a step forward, around a large chunk of plywood gnarled by the fire. His men had wrapped the walls in crime scene tape, bright yellow against the tangle of pipes and bricks stretching toward the sky; Francesca was digging one foot under a misshaped framework, a rain of ashes blurring the ground. He tried not to watch the blood stain on his left. 

He didn't want to die. Not like this. He had understood, after years of maimed rookies and terrified corpses screaming in the void and sturdy detectives crying and puking blood on him, that you couldn't really be ready to die; but you could at least say that you had fought till the end, that you didn't even _realize_ the defeat. He had always asked nothing but that. Nothing but leave in the middle of the battle, not at the end nor at the beginning. 

And now, now he was helping death to take him. He was trying to die. And he was so scared and yet he couldn't but follow the goal because at least it was _something to do_ , something to think about. 

_Something that was not the defibrillator. The leather jacket running away._

_What a bad day, O'Hara._

He let out a shallow laugh. 

-Is everything okay, detective?- 

The kid's head shot toward him. She was funny, with warm chestnut eyes and the most tousled hair he had ever seen. 

She didn't seem an executioner. 

-What? Oh yes, sure. Everything regular. - _Crazy terrifying regular yes fucking regular. -_ What , what exactly are we looking for?- 

-There's nothing specific.- She shrugged. -It could be anything. A thing, a memory. You'll recognize it, I suppose.- 

He stopped midstep. Felt a surge of anger, fought to suppress it. -You _suppose_? Are you joking with me, girl?- 

_Please say no._

She stopped, scowling lightly. -No, I'm not joking, detective. But it's not an exact science. It's more, how do you say? A gut's feeling. And I'm only trying to help.- 

_Help me die._ But her words had been blunt, and that was something he could respect. 

He closed his eyes, swallowed. 

-Mmm. I, I understand. Sorry, I've been unfair.- 

-I think I could understand too. Shall we begin?- 

-Yes. Let's begin. Wait, where, where are you going?- 

-To that side. I thought it would be better splitting.- 

He nodded numbly, as the girl turned and hopped around the West corner of the building, her red raincoat bouncing around her. Carlton asked himself what the Hell he should do. Dead. 

Calm down. He closed his eyes. Somehow not being seen made him feel blurry, _faker_. Pinched to the page with old glue, a jolt and you're torn off. Oh, he was so not good with that stuff. Spirit, intuition, heart feels. Anything implying to follow the stream and other eerie things people never truly defined. 

_And if I don't find the lapse, and I fail, what then?_

_No. Calm down._ It was true, he was not good at perceiving things; but he did knew how to _look_ for things, and that was not so different. It should not be so different. He was good at it, and it had always felt right, and was better than staying there feeling fake. Feeling like old glue. So he shook his hands, bit his lip and did the only sensible thing possible. 

He watched as a cop. 

The building was a Sixties warehouse of a fishing company closed years ago. 49 for 26 feet, two windows on each side, one gate on the front and two secondary exits. They had gotten in at three point five p.m., to find and possibly stop Pocofov. He was an old acquaintance of his, an half-Russian thug who managed to annoy the PD to no end without ever becoming a real deal. Fairly good shooter, too emotional. They got there and Carlton kicked the others behind the guard box, because Pocofov was a good shooter. O'Hara called backup, Spencer talked nonsense and gave them the time not to get him shot. Lassiter spotted three men behind a stock of freezer containers, gave their boss the Firm Cop Talk, as Shawn so indecorously named it. But then Pocofov raised his his gun and he shot to the wall, because Pocofov was also emotional and he didn't think that the place was a wreck and the gas meter could be damaged and it would fry half the place. Then, then Carlton should have gotten up, and he should have also lift his Glock and go forward, and then fire fire roaring in his shoulder and screams all around and nothing. And everything. And nothing again. 

_Let's check that side, shall we?_

He walked past the corner, stepping carefully over a bunch of concrete. He wondered vaguely if he could still trip. There was sand along the walls, squashed by footprints, and he almost thought to recognize O'Hara's stilettos: there were less than two women in the force wearing those things. Maybe those were Shawn's sneakers, but no, it was foolish. There were too many prints, too many people. He bit his lip harder. 

Spencer, stupid, ungrateful Spencer. 

He kept walking, taking a look around. On his left he saw the second entrance, the door twisted in a strange maggot-like heap; next to it the oilcloth of one of the window cracked under the wind, half torn from the frame.There was a wire net running along the south side of the parking lot, hovering over the empty lot behind it. Nearer him Heineken bottles, graffiti dripping over the churned wall, and. 

Wait a moment. 

Black streaks ran from the building toward the street behind them, way too smooth to be random. He knelt down, brushing the signs. _Pneumatic prints. Distanced : truck, maybe a pick up_. He had supposed the idiotic ruffian had died, but maybe he had not. Maybe he had sneaked out taking advantage of the turmoil. The secondary exit was almost whole. It made sense. Crap. He tried hard to remember if he had seen any car, cursing himself both for trying and not making it. 

_Oh yeah, sure, Carlton. To who would you say it, anyway?_

Carlton was starting to grumble, when he spotted something else. Five or six steps from the window, on the inside of the building lumped the misshaped mouth of the gas meter, cables spourting over red plastic. 

He pulled himself up. 

-Are you finding anything?- the girl's voice floated from the other side. 

-Ah, I don't think so.- He answered. -My guys had yet to pass, but there is not much I could, could use...- 

He slipped through the door, heading right to the meter. Yellowish light poured across the tendrils of roof still in place, flooding the floor, the dust in the air. 

_Don't think don't remember just watch._

He reached the red box, examining it. Pocofov's shot had carved an ugly hole in the upper half of the metal shell, and Carlton found himself wondering with a jolt of annoyance if he could at least pulled out it to check the wires. Another reason why you're supposed to stay dead or stay alive, he lazily thought. But despite himself, his hands had already begun to roam around the evidence; to let it talk against his touch. The hole. A large crack gashing it, large enough for a human hand. 

And there, there something. 

Seven inch deep. Metal shining against the bottom. He scowled, and his eye was pushed against the opening before he could realize it. Cables he had no idea what for, the series of little levers that indicated if the thing was on or off, and under it, the faint glow of a bullet. Oh, hold on a second. Carlton squeezed his eyes. The levers, there was something wrong with the levers. 

They were turned on. In a deserted warehouse. 

_Wait a moment wait a moment wait a moment_ . He closed a fist, feeling the pieces sliding in place, crayons outlining the dark. He leaned again on the break. The bullet, here, he could see it. Long, sleek. 

The world slowed. 

Francesca looked up again from the umpteenth stack of melted crap, blinking. -Detective Lassiter? Still everything okay?- 

No answer. Seconds passed. -Detective Lassiter?- 

-I'm here.- 

She frowned, starting to walk around the facade. Carlton could hear her sneakers. He didn't move. 

_This changes everything. How stupid we were. How stupid_ I've _been._

-Have you, have you found something interesting?- 

Carlton swallowed. Slowly, he straightened. The idea ringing and stinging somewhere in the chest. 

-The gas meter. It was working. It was not broken.- 

-Duh. So that's why it exploded so suddenly, right?- 

-Yes, but this is unimportant.- 

He could almost see her frowning. _A cop would have understood, O'Hara would have understood_. -I still don't see the point.- 

-The gas meter was up, during the shooting. It was up _before_ the gun shot.- 

The girl got nearer, brushed absent-mindedly the metal box. -It was up? So it was working? You think- she abruptly stopped, turning to him. She sucked in through teeth. - _Cazzo._ You think they knew it. You think they did it on purpose. _Cazzo!_ \- 

He merely nodded, not averting his gaze from the bullet. -Francesca, could you pull out that bullet?- 

-Sorry? We weren't...- 

-Pull it out, please.- 

_Breathe think oh fuck O'Hara oh_ fuck _._

She hesitated for a split second, but then her hand reached out in the red thing, peering through the rough crack. Carlton followed it silently, all the world sucked in that single dot. 

And here it was. Small. Sleek. He remembered it perfectly, because he had hold one identical years ago, and he almost never forgot the weapons he touched, the ones he loved. O'Hara said that he remembered them way better than people. 

-It's a Marcury.- 

-I don't see...- 

-It's the bullet of a Mercury. Good weapon, but too heavy. They stopped the production in the late sixties. There are only two people owning one of them in Santa Barbara.- 

He tried to touch it, remembered suddenly that he couldn't. 

-One of them it's me.- 

Francesca blinked slowly, licking her lips. Her words were still there but he wasn't really hearing them, because Carlton's head was swirling. There was a pool of quiet at the center of Carlton's stormy temper, a place of clarity where the world became variables to calibrate and anger became fuel, and he slipped there with the good clack of a trigger. 

\- What does it mean, detective?- 

-It could mean everything.- 

He took a step forward, was running before he realized it. Check the gun. Check Pocofov. Possible revenge, his old cases, warn O'Hara and the chief and Spencer. Stop the bastard. World was chaos, and at the center of it Carlton knew perfectly what to do. 

-Where, where the heck are you going now?- The girl's patter rang across the spoiled walls of the warehouse. -I may sound pessimistic, but I don't think that you are supposed to _march_ in the Great Light.- 

-I'm going to the PD. They need to know what we saw.- 

_Saw what? Not important not important. They need to._ I _need._

Her shriek was a disturbing mix of O'Hara and Guster. -What? Whoa, wait, you, you _can't_ do it.- 

He was at the door. -No one knew about the X. I don't have anything grounded yet, but damn me if it's a coincidence.- 

-Okay, I understand.- The girl popped out of the secondary exit a second after him, muttered a curse when her foot hit a metal sheet. -This thing seems big and you are angry and you worry for the others, but you can't. You are, well, _not alive_.- 

-Hardly fundamental.- 

She growled. -You don't understand: you're not alive. You are no longer part of this world, although you did not leave it. Therefore you can't intervene on it anymore. There could be consequences. There could be side effects.- 

-You don't know it.- 

-Maybe, but I don't want to be the one that messed up the cosmic order. I can't let you do it, and you can't do a thing about it.- 

\- Very well. So I'm going alone.- 

-Going to do what? To say _what_?- 

\- I know how to do my job.- 

She stopped. And she accidentally broke his heart. 

-Carlton- 

- _Don't call me like that!_ \- He turned sharply, gritting his teeth. The voice was shrieking, even shrill _, God was that his voice?_ -I'm Lassiter, Head Detective Lassiter. I'm a cop. I have a duty, I have a partner and I have information for a case that could put in danger both of these things, so I'm going to do my job, and you will not stop me.- 

-Ehy!- The girl looked at him wide-eyed. Wide chocolate eyes, _eyes that knew death, eyes that knew death._ -Calm down, okay? I'm just trying to help _here_.- 

-You're trying to get rid of an inconvenience.- 

Her face twisted. -I'm trying to make you ready... I'm trying to do the right thing.- 

-Oh, sure, and you are what?- He sneered, but his voice was trembling. - Some dark-ish spoiled brat that talks with ghosts?- 

-You don't understand.- 

- _You_ don't understand! I'm not ready!- Carlton shouted. Feeling bitter and fierce and terrified. -I don't want to be ready. You don't have to come, and I don't know wha is happening but I, I'm going. This is not how I'm going to die.- 

She backed, setting her jaw. He straightened his back, pointedly ignoring that there was no shadow under his feet. Seagulls squeaked in the distance as they waited for the other to move. Something old and hard flamed on Francesca's face for a moment, and then it disappeared again. She sighed. 

\- Okay. Okay, we're going. I don't want to be an executioner, detective. Despite what you may think.- 

She started to walk before he could say anything. 


	6. VI - Proprior (Closer)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlton discovers that maybe he's more shit-scared than else. Shawn smokes. Juliet keeps the pieces together.

  
VI - Proprior  


  
(Closer)  


  


  
There were clouds, over the precinct.  


  
Not many, but enough to suggest rain. The sky was pretty clear, swelling in the good fat azure of California mornings, but they hang there around the red  
roof and the tips of the apple tree planted by the parking.  


  
There were clouds over the precinct, and they were not moving.  


  
Carlton found himself on the sidewalk out of Francesca's car. Again he had no idea how he did it.  


  
-Hurry up. We go in.-  


  
He was running up the stairs before she could close the car.  


  
-You're always like this? Barking orders around like some sort of Vietnam sergent?-  


  
-Hush, girl. I need to concentrate.-  


  
They were already past the PD doors, flying swiftly through mops of rookies and secretaries and suspects more or less ragged. He didn't need his nose to  
know how it smelled, old coffee and disinfectant and sweat, how the heater puff felt against the back of the shirt. It felt good. It felt very good.  


  
The girl licked her lips. -What are we doing now?-  


  
-Find out if they've already any element, and if not communicate our conclusions.The forensic team should be on its way, I'm positive Pocofov's name has  
already popped up somewhere. And we could always use you as a random bystander.-  


  
-Mh-mh.- She didn't look very convinced.  


  
-I don't think it'll be necessary, however. We just need to find McNab. And go to the archive.- Pass the desk, turn in the hall. Floor, work, home. -It's  
way past eight a.m., the reports could be already here too.-  


  
-Mh-mh. Ehy, it's normal all that people stuffed there?-  


  
Those words tickled Carlton, in a no-place he had come to call his Bad Switch. The Chief's office was indeed hemmed in a fat ring of bluish uniforms, heads  
practically smashed against the windows. A lot of heads.  


  
Clack.  


  
He turned sharply to the kid.  


  
-Why did they let you pass?-  


  
Francesca blinked. -Uh, I suppose because I'm a five-foot tall not-armed girl...?-  


  
-No, I mean, why they let you pass without checking. Every civilian entering the PD should be recognized and scheduled as not-dangerous, or at least asked  
an identification document at the door. They didn't do it. That's, odd.-  


  
Carlton slowed down. Who were the control agents at the door? He had not even really looked. Actually, he had not really looked at the whole precinct.  


  
He hushed the girl before she talked and lifted his head. He knew istantly something was wrong.  


  
Around the desks was a lot of agents, yes, but they were scattered: some arguing in hissings at the porter's lodge, others fidgeting with the papers  
fastened on the advise table.The reports weren't typed even at the usual painful pace. A bunch of cops, good cops, he recognized Rodriguez and Harp, were  
slumped on the relax room couch, talking softly among them. It was not only the rookies around the office. He glared at the kitchenette.  


  
-There's still coffee. After the night shift.-  


  
-Maybe they made it again?-  


  
-Obviously you've never been to a precinct.- The thickle got worse. Cops not drinking coffee meant disorganization. It meant disorder, or lot of work, but  
they were clearly not working. They were wasting time. He clenched his teeth without feeling it. -Unacceptable. No. Where the heck is McNab? The Chief?-  


  
Carlton marched back towards the office, searching around. Where were the other detectives, anyway? O'Brien, and Donovan and Potter, and what the Hell was  
Samson doing in the corner with all the cops lazing around?  


  
It shouldn't work like this. There were things to do, cases, operations. It should't work like this. He came by the studio. The shutters were pulled aside.  
McNab was inside, sitting across the desk. He was contemplating pure air.  


  
-What the hell.- Carlton growled. The girl was saying something, he didn't hear it.  


  
What is it? What's wrong?  


  
No one, nearly no one was working. The suspects weren't guarded. No one talked. It was like New Year aftermath but a hundred times worse. He roamed around,  
feeling his clear spot slipping far and far and far, anger itching at his fingertips. He just wanted to stump a foot and shout them at place. It would be  
the right thing to do.  


  
-Unbelievable. This is just unbelievable. I'm surrounded by tearaways.-  


  
Ungrateful.  


  
-Detective, what's wrong?-  


  
Ungrateful.  


  
-Don't talk.-.  


  
The girl stopped, and Carlton just kept walking. He found himself back at the relax room, the cops had gone away. For a moment Carlton just wanted to start  
screaming and ravaging around, punching the Hell out of the walls until it felt enough, but no. He stumped on a sofa in front of the windows, looking  
slowly at his people.  


  
It was stupid. They were men, normal men doing a job, it was early morning with no superiors around, it was obvious they would let it go. By now he should  
know it. They were all normal men and getting so angry was stupid.  


  
What was he thinking to do there, anyway? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he had discovered nothing. Or maybe really nothing of this crap was true and it was  
all in his head and he was dying in a hospital room with O'Hara eating M&Ms by his side, and if so, his subconscious was a very cruel and very banal  
place to be. Oh, and there was the girl. She needed to sleep. To eat, too. She had a family that was waiting for her, he had not even checked if she'd  
called them. Rookie mistake. Damn.  


  
He plunged his head in his hands. It was so sad. All of it, it was, it was.  


  
-Why in the Hell is everyone acting like a goddamn lobotomized?- Carlton asked softly.  


  
-Because they are scared, detective.-  


  
He looked at his back. The girl was leaning against the kitchenette, rummaging in a pack of Cheetos.  


  
-They are scared. Their Head Detective, their boss has been shot and they don't know why or how bad. They don't know what will happen and if it will hurt  
and maybe they will have to set again all the rules. It's the scariest thing that one could feel, detective.-  


  
-How can you say it?-  


  
She curled on the uncomfortable leather couch. -Let's say I have a bit of experience in feeling angry and confused and messed up. And I saw hundreds of  
dramatic series, after all.-  


  
Ah. Ridiculous. Naive. Yet Carlton simply nodded, looking up at the precinct behind the door. The pastel-colored walls, people carrying papers they would  
never finish in peace, the Police Ball posters still in the cellophane. His desk and O'Hara's and the blatant lack of that nonsensical whirpool of rush and  
fullness that burned up everytime they were all together.  


  
-They are not disorganized, detective. They're waiting. For you.-  


  
He found hard speaking.  


  
-This is so, so unprofessional.-  


  
-Nah. I think it's kinda cute.-  


  
Carlton felt himself grin a bit. His precinct, his men, waiting for him. Maybe it wasn't true.  


  
It felt good. It felt so really good.  


  
-Well, what now?-  


  
The question was so sudden Carlton snapped out of his haze. The girl was staring at him, one leg folded under her and an expression of quite interest.  


  
-What do you mean “now”?-  


  
-What do you want to do.- She shrugged. -What's the plan.-  


  
-What about the cosmic equilibrium and the rightness and so on?-  


  
-Screw the cosmos.- Francesca clacked. -You're right: I have no proof that anything of that crap exists. I don't know anything; actually. But you are a  
good person and I know that if I don't try to help this mess I'll regret it for all my life. So really, screw the cosmos.-  


  
She crossed her arms. He noted the nibbled yellow nail polish on her fingers, the spurt of freckles around her nose. For the first time since he met her,  
she actually seemed a twenty years old.  


  
It won't be dangerous. You should contact her parents. She understands and she wants to come, she wants to come.  


  
Where the Hell are we going with that, detective?  


  
We're going.  


  
-We need more information.- He said suddenly, getting up. -We need cases and brutture and suspects.-  


  
-Are we going to the archive?-  


  
-No.- Think, breathe, act. - We're going to my house.-  


  


  


  
She had slept, and even rather deeply: except that between “deeply” and “fitfully” there are several universes of distance. That kind of sleep was a little  
like turn off a battery: a trick she learned the hard way when her parents were arguing and she waited for her dad to finally leave for real, and that she  
brought to perfection during ambushes. On, off. Gray dreams, waking up. Dozing, nurse coming to check the IV's. Eating a handful of M&M's, sleeping  
again against the wall. On, off.  


  
Are you the wife, Miss?  


  
Uh, no.  


  
Oh, so you are another cop?  


  
Yes. No. Yes. I'm his partner.  


  
Juliet growled, waking up again and taking off her face from the wall. Gosh, she was drooling again. Her face should look like a sort of blonde scarecrow.  
She groaned.  


  
Although she grew up with a nest of brothers, Jules was one of those persons who needed clean clothes and tidy hair to feel completely themselves. The care  
of herself was one of her best mood indicator, and the same went for Carlton; thus why she sympathized with him in front of some of Shawn's outfits. For  
him clothes were a way to avoid scandalized complains or to shock someone; for them they were substitute of medieval armors. It must be a thing for ex-  
very lonely kids.  


  
With that she sighed, and turned toward the hospital bed, and begun the checking ritual for the fifth time of the night.  


  
Carlton was awfully pale, and he wasn't sleeping. People loved to say that their dead or unconscious ones look like sleeping, but she had always found it  
slightly disturbing. Death, unconsciousness is not slumber; shutting down after you nearly bled to death and flat-lined three times is not slumber, and it  
shouldn't look like it.  


  
He was gray-skinned, eye-lashes curved on blue sockets; skin thin like paper. She could almost see the web of azure veins under the temples, along the  
forearms. Carlton had always had this absurd mix of sturdy Irishness and dainty details on him, but now they stood out piercingly, horribly. The collarbone  
line spourting from the bandages looked ready to snap at the lightest touch, and she didn't feel a bit ridiculous to say it from her five foot height.  


  
And God, there were so many tubi. Things that clicked and biped and dig in his skin. Near the kitty cat poster hanging from the wall one of the monitor was  
beating, slowly, and it was deafening.  


  
He would hate to be seen like this; you earned that right only after centuries. It was not right others saw him like this. People that didn't know him,  
that didn't give him all their chocolate after the divorce papers' signature, that never organized him the worst birthday ever and still stayed his friend.  
That didn't see him neither being happy nor angry nor taking aim at someone's head.  


  
She leaned to brush away a forelock. The kitty cat watched silently.  


  
\- So I'm not the only awake thing in this place.-  


  
Juliet spun around so fast she nearly fell from the chair. Immediately babbling her list of excuses. -Oh, I, I'm a police officer, I asked the Surgery  
Chief to stay, for sicurezza, he said yes so I am, here. I'm his partner.-  


  
In the blue-lighted doorway was a man: she spotted a white coat, a roundish face that could be smiling. He was the doctor, she had talked to him that  
afternoon. She hadn't even checked who it was before dropping her guard. Her gun was forgotten in her purse. Gosh, Juliet, shake it up, rookie mistake.  


  
-Glad you're so informed, Detective O'Hara. Although I can't understand how you're so lively at four in the mornin'.-  


  
The doc took some steps on the linoleum, approaching the bed.  


  
She tried her hardest to master a smile, disastred mascara and all. What was his name? It was something that literally screamed Scotland. McArthur?  
McDonnell? The biping was distracting.  


  
-Is it...has it happened something? Complications? Other tests?-  


  
He shook his head, casting a glance to one of the monitors. He was small, skinny in a way that seemed crafted for fly: one of those men that looked  
impressive thanks to a mix of temper and sheer will force. He reminded her painfully of her partner. And he had a beautiful voice. Rough, deeper than  
expected, with a Southern drawl thick like honey.  


  
-No, don't worry suga'. I'm here just to check on the guy. Makin' sure he isn't planning strange things.-  


  
Here she guessed a dismiss. She couldn't move.  


  
The doctor gave her a half-smile. -He's one lucky guy, isn't he?-  


  
-Oh, no, we don't. I mean, I'm not.-  


  
-Oh no, no, I didn't mean it. It was clear.-  


  
-Clear?-  


  
He did a vague gesture with the free hand. -Staying here all night but never touchin' him. Talking with every livin' thing in your range as an angry bear.  
I have a sister. She's almost the same.- His voice softened. -A lot of times it's them that stay. The rompipalle sisters, no offense intended.-  


  
She smiled. He smiled.  


  
-Doctor, how bad is it?-  


  
-Straight to the point. Well, on a scale from one to ten, I think we're at six.-  


  
There should have been something very rabbit-in-the-headlights in her face, because he turned and propped against the night stand.  


  
-Let me explain. Under the left shoulder and the collarbone there's a thing called Subclavian artery, and as every artery it is often a little bitch. When  
struck arteries bleed a lot and a lot fast. We repaired it pretty fast, but the blood loss had been huge. The Subclavian is close to the heart, that's why  
his body tried to shut down so soon. We call it blood loss shock.-  


  
-And now?-  


  
-Now we've managed to stabilize him. We're pumping in all the blood we can, but the truth is, we don't know. He went into arrest two times, it's some  
stress for a system. We have to wait. He could wake up tomorrow, or ...-  


  
-I got it.-  


  
He paused. -Sure thing.-  


  
-It shouldn't have happened. I mean, it was routine, we did crazier things. A lot of crazier things. I didn't calculate. There was so much blood, and I. -  
To Juliet's horror, her throat let out a whine-ish sound. -I'm sorry. I'm not usually like that. I don't, I, I'm a good cop.-  


  
-I do not doubt it, ma'am.-  


  
Silence.  


  
-Let's do that.- He pulled himself up, talking softly. -Now I'll go taking his analysis, and you'll calm down and we'll still pretend to be the tough  
professionisti we fancy to be. Sounds good?-  


  
Juliet breathed. Her teeth unclenched enough to speak.  


  
-Sounds good.-  


  
-Good. Stay with him, Detective O'Hara. It helps. I know it from experience.-  


  
The doctor nodded, preparing to leave. He talked again when he was at the door.  


  
-And don't worry. The hair is not that bad.-  


  
-How...?-  


  
He gestured over his shoulder. -Younger sister!-  


  
Juliet watched him disappear across the door with a smile. She realized she still didn't know his real name.  


  
I will ask him tomorrow. And I'll call the precinct too. And Gus, yeah, maybe Gus could come a bit. Poor Gus, sweet Gus.  


  
But those were tomorrow things. Day-light things, now was not the right time, and she was not the right Juliet. The words "Blood loss shock" still sounded  
a lot scary.  


  
A lot of times, it's them that stay.  


  
Juliet got up, to stretch her legs and go to the bathroom, and coming back she sat again on her chair. It didn't feel enough. She needed to be there,  
closer if he. If he. She bent over the bed, sliding her arms around his neck, and it felt so awkward and so right. She pressed her head on his chest. He  
was warm. She closed her eyes. Counting the breaths. One, three. One.  


  
Don't leave me, okay? Please, for me. It would be wonderful.  


  
A breath, just again her cheek.  


  
Thanks.  


  


  
Shawn lit his first cigarette at seven a.m.; the first cigarette in more than four years, actually. The last one had been in a lousy motel on Santa  
Barbara's outskirts, the night before he knocked at his Dad's door and began the greatest show of his life. He hadn't needed them in ages. But that morning  
the sun had bleached white his teenage room's curtains and they looked suddenly like pale pale skin and he couldn't breathe and Shawn decided that it was  
better getting up and having a good ciggie.  


  
He slipped out of the door and climbed on the roof, picking the lighter with shaking hands. At the first puff he coughed pitifully, but he went on, and at  
the third one the smoke burned deep enough in his lungs. In and out. In and out. The world reduced to it. No tears. In and out.  


  
He heard the clanging of feet on the metal stair. Slight pants, ex-asthmatic wheeze.  


  
-Ugh. It's freezing up there.-  


  
-'Suppose so.-  


  
-Put the coat on, Shawn.-  


  
-Gus...-  


  
-Put the coat on.-  


  
He groaned, grabbing the offered coat. Gus propped himself beside him, in the nook against the scarica water drainpipe. It was where they played pirates as  
kids, and Shawn had caught the worst cold of his life. The sky was getting clear.  


  
-I talked with Jules.- Gus said. -She's angry as Hell.-  


  
-How angry?-  


  
-“Kill you in a very excruciating way” angry.- He paused, licking his lips. Shawn did not like his face a bit. -She's...she's broken, Shawn. Really.-  


  
-You should work on your support skills, Gus.-  


  
-I'm serious. Have you seen. Well, I mean. Have you seen?-  


  
Shawn shook his head. Gus was such a good friend he didn't even try to rebuke him. -Well, he's stable now. The bullet hit the Subclavian artery and the  
bone, and he's lost a lot of blood during surgery.-  


  
-And that's a very bad thing.-  


  
-Yeah. A very bad thing.-  


  
Shawn took a long, long puff, trying to swallow the lump stuck in his throat.  


  
-Gus...-  


  
-You don't have to, Shawn. You should, but you don't have to.-  


  
-What's that supposed to mean? Why are you and Dad being so, so nice? I prayed for ages to be left alone, and you do it now.-  


  
Gus scowled. - What's the matter, Shawn?-  


  
-Nothing. It's just awkward.-  


  
-Shawn...-  


  
\- Just, don't talk to me like it's going to happen something horrible and irreparable, okay?-  


  
-Okay. Sure, man.-  


  
Then he shuffled, getting closer, and Shawn put his head on Gus's shoulder like a goddamn Regency heroine. They hugged in front of sunrise. It felt  
ridiculous, but they didn't care. And then it was cold.  


  
-So, I suppose I should go back annoying you. And say the same to your father. And...-  


  
-Thanks buddy.-  


  
-Anytime.-  


  
-Gus.-  


  
-Mh-mh?-  


  
-I think I've dropped some ashes on your Moncler.-  



	7. Nihil Videndo (Nothing To See)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn and Lassiter, finally and not yet. They're both way cheesier than they'd like to think.

**VII – Nihil Videndo**

**(Nothing to See)**

To reach Carlton’s house he and Francesca took her car again. It was a rusty, European thing that was ridiculously small and looked vaguely like a beetle. It rolled smoothly along the streets and did a wheezing sound on slopes. At some moment she turned on the radio, tuning it on a Pop station and giving him an expectant look. Carlton nodded. 

This time travel was easier: it all felt logical and nicely solid in the cabin. Out of the window Main Street was already in full swing, people going around, men cleaning the shop windows. A school bus shuttled in front of a movie poster pinned by the stop. Carlton found himself smile. 

-Francesca, did you call your parents last night? You didn't come home.- 

-Yes, I did. And don't call me Francesca. Call me Fran.- 

-I would never do such a thing.- 

The girl rolled her eyes, turning a corner. 

-Uh, I got it. You're one of those no-nicknames type, right?- 

The pang of memory was so sweet it hurt. –I’m no type. I just don't see why Francesca isn’t a perfectly proper name.- 

-You would think it different if you had a name that practically screams "pizza e mandolino".- She cast him a rapid glance. -What's your name, anyway?- 

-Lassiter. I’ve already told you.- 

-I mean the _first_ name, detective.- 

He stretched his back, proudly. -Carlton Jebediah Lassiter.- 

It took a moment to sink in. The girl kept driving, arching an eyebrow. Then she began to laugh. She laughed so much the car swayed a bit. 

-Carlton _Jebediah_?- She snorted, tried to breathe, failed. -Oh my, and here I thought I was the miserable one. I think I'll _forever_ call you detective.- 

Carlton watched her giggling madly behind the wheel, shaking her head. He had discovered his true name not two months ago, after watching The Patriot on Tv. He had had to confiscate his cell to prevent a catastrophic SMS to Guster. He had laughed _so hard_. 

Carlton looked up from the dashboard. - Stop the car.- 

-Uh? Why?- A shuffle of papers. -It's not the right road.- 

-Please, stop the car.- 

Francesca shrugged, pulling on the side of the road. Large sycamores rustled high over them. It was a respectful neighborhood, half-empty since it was way past office hour. Henry's house peered among roofs and trees. 

He fumbled with the door handle without touching it. He needed to get out. There. There was too much noise, roaring. He was in the street. The girl was talking. Was it a thunder? 

-Is something wrong?- 

-Ah, no. No.- 

-You look strange.- 

He swallowed, said the truth. -I need to do something.- 

She followed his gaze, leaning out of the driver’s window. All the way to the other side of the road and the trees and the red, red roof. 

-Oh, okay. Sure. I'll, I’ll try to find something to eat around here.- 

Carlton patted his trousers pockets on autopilot. –Ah, good. You need some cash?- 

-I kinda doubt you have cash, detective.- She said. She paused as the engine rumbled back in life. -Take your time, detective. I'll be right here.- 

He nodded. 

He didn’t know how, but suddenly he was in a courtyard. It was Henry's courtyard, he recognized the wisterias dangling from the porch's roof and the barbeque he had drooled after for two years. It was all quiet. A sprinkler went out in a nearby garden. 

Carlton took a step forward. He knew exactly what to do and had no idea why. He wasn't even sure he was there. He couldn’t stay there. He was angry with him. 

He would just get a bit nearer. Take a look inside, check it out, just a moment. Just another step. Probably there was no one inside. He was on the porch. Probably. 

Someone shuffled from behind a window and Carlton's head snapped that way. He heard a clack of mugs, the low humming of a microwave. 

It was Shawn, of course. 

He was heating up coffee. Despite Shawn Spencer's frenzied way of life, he actually drank a lot less coffee than Carlton; he said he found it too serious. It was mainly a Thinking Thing, or a shared ritual, and he never did it on his own. Carlton couldn't have helped grimacing every time he had seen him warming up that brownish slop and flinging it in the still-not-washed last-night mug. 

Carlton took a step towards the window, slowly. Oh, this felt so wrong. It felt so right. He was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit pants and his hair went in every possible ways around his face. The light fell right across his nose as he looked down into the sinker. 

Carlton lifted a hand, brushed the glass. He could stay a little more. He should stay a little more. Oh please he had to stay a little more, because there was nothing, not really, nothing in the whole universe and life and death that can matter nearly as much as staying a little more here. Here, here, watching Spencer warming up coffee. 

Finding a clean mug in Pope's drawer was harder than expected. Shawn groaned, scratching a temple. Under bare feet the floor was still chilly, but the sun had gone up hours ago; soon it would warm up everything. Dad had gone to the groceries and left him a note to clean the garage. 

_Remember the gutter. Don't fall from the roof._

It had been somehow nice from the old man, but of course he would never do such a thing. He wouldn't have done it anyway, let alone now that he had such a great excuse. 

He found Gus’s mug in the sinker and gave it a wash. Pope’s house felt very large and very quiet around him. Man, if it was awkward. He didn't have to stay there. Life went on. He was hungry. He could go out, pick up a smoothie. He could open the Psych, because no matter what, they still have to pay cable TV. He didn’t have to stay there, not a bit. Life went on. Going out, buying a smoothie, working. Doing things. Anything. 

Shawn suddenly looked up. He rushed to stop the microwave, all the time without taking his eyes away from the window, the one looking on the porch. He had heard a sound. Or seen a shadow, he wasn't sure. 

There was nothing outside, though. The flowers, a fishing pole, the normal stuff Dad left there. 

Still Shawn found himself walking. The floor felt suddenly colder under his feet. He breathed slowly, squinted. There was nothing outside. Something. It was there again. A sound, or a shadow. He lifted a hand and touched the window. Fingertips pressed against the glass. 

The glass was warm. Shawn didn't see anything, felt _everything_. He sucked in. 

-Carl...- 

But really, there was nothing outside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome again. Short short chapter, this time, but there is a reason, because it’s probably one of the most romantic things I’ve ever written. And in a story where Lassie and Shawn scarcely meet each other, it seems only fitting leaving a full chapter to them. An Interlude in the middle of the storm. They kinda deserve it.  
> Hope you like it, as always, and I’d love to know how it has gone so far. Thanks for your support.


	8. VIII - Ducens Iter (The Leading Way)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The leading way has many faces, but takes to the same place. Jules gets some good clues. Carlton and Francesca discover some good clues too, in and out, and meet someone they shouldn't meet at all.

**VIII – DucensIter**

**(The Leading Way)**

The rookie cleared his throat near the kitchenette. 

-You. You want more coffee, Detective O’Hara?- 

Officer Ramirez was standing stiffly with a pot of coffee in a hand. He had the scrawny, bird-like look of post-teen boys, and looked at her like all the good things of the world spread directly from her ears. Juliet had been pretty long enough to know a crush when she saw one. 

-No, thanks, Arthur. I’m fine.- 

She shut down the study’s shutters and stretched down the shirt over her navel. She had finally managed to get a shower and put on some clean clothes Gus brought her, clothes that didn’t smell of smoke or hospital, so it should feel better. It felt better. With Carlton there had been no real changes, but his heart was still going and she had gotten up from his side and stopped checking his face every three seconds. She did laid a kiss on his temple before coming here. 

She pushed it back and gestured to Ramirez to sit down at the docs'desk. The gentle-eyed doctor, _McCoy, she had remembered it_ , said they could use the relax room when it got obvious the rookies going around needed to talk cop-business. 

Juliet sat on the other chair, pulling her hair up with an elastic. 

–So. Any news from the precinct?- 

-Ah, yeah. Actually, the Chief told me to bring you all the analysis we’ve got so far, on the bullet, the crime scene and such. She said maybe you could have some infos.- 

-Sure.- It was a sneaky way to put her on the case, and they both knew it. 

She gave a nod and the boy pulled out of his backpack a pile of photos. Juliet picked it up, began scrolling the snaps. Fuzzy images turning into hypothesis, doubts, answers. The right files unrolled in her mind. 

A wretched wall .A close-up of the gas meter.Trails of blood stepping back along the parking. She half-remembered her and Shawn dragging Carlton away, flames roaring behind them and no fuckin’ idea if the thing was going to explode again. Another photo. The bullet was funny-shaped, but she didn’t know enough about that stuff to say anything. Footprints in the mud, the emergency door on the right side. Oh, wait. 

-What are these?- She asked, pointing at the pneumatic trails on the blackened concrete. –Could be a truck? Pocofov’s one?- 

Ramirez nodded grimly. –Yep. They’re still running interviews at the PD, but a lot of witnesses said they saw a truck leaving the place shortly after the explosion. The descriptions matched Pocofov’s one. No officer noted it because, well, all the other stuff.- 

The other stuff, sure. Juliet felt bile rising under the tongue. He was still alive. The man who had shot her partner was still alive. Her hands shook. It didn’t change anything. It changed everything. 

She talked softly.-Did you already broadcast his identikit to the hospitals?- 

-Yes, ma’am.- 

-Put under control other contacts? Family, older gangs?- 

-We’re looking on that, ma’am.- 

-Good. He’s a fugitive, but we can’t let him die like this.- _Liar liar liar._ –Not before a trial, anyway.- 

-Of course, ma'am.- 

Juliet leaned back on the chair, scrubbing the side of her ear. The photos rested in front of her. She thought about turning over the deskright there. 

Ramirez cleared his throat again. 

-Ah, Detective. Maybe there’s still a thing you should know.- 

She gave him a crankier face than intended. He squirmed on his chair. –Well, it’s something strange. When we got to the warehouse this morning with the sync guys, they, like, it looked like someone had been there.- 

-Someone not of the PD, you mean?- 

-Yeah. They had begun to map the area for the reenactment, and found some things out of place. Little things. And the gas meter was open.- 

-You found any digits?- 

-Yes. There was no match in the archive, though.- 

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose until it ached. It was less strange than she would like to think, actually. Every showy case got his fair share of gross-suckers, and the docks weren’t exactly a five-stars neighborhood. It could have been some junkies looking for sellable component, or some gang runners trying to wipe out evidence. 

-Okay. Okay. They messed it badly?- 

-Actually no, ma’am.-Ramirez said.-The cover is a bit torn, but from the way it’s done it looks like they were trying to open the thing. The inside was not touched.- 

An idea was rolling in Juliet’s mind, still on the outskirts, drawing lines. She trusted it. 

-Your guys noted something remarkable in the meter?- 

-Uh, remarkable in what way?- 

-Clues. Suspicious details. _That way_.- 

The pimpled face turned vaguely purple. -Oh. Err, no, no strange things, apart from the obvious damages caused by the shot. We found the levers already on the on, but it could be a consequence of the shortcut.- 

Juliet straightened. The idea was surfacing, closer and closer, and yeah, now she could feel it. She took the photo of the gas meter again, looking hard. Here, the levers were all up. So the thing was turned on. What about if it was on _before_ the shooting? It was possible. It changed everything. 

_Oh, Carlton, it changes everything._

Juliet put the snap on the table and got up. There should be something scary in her moves, because Ramirez cringed on his chair. 

-Uh, e-everything all right, Detective O’Hara?- 

She grabbed the red rain jacket Gus brought for her and put it on. 

-I need to go to the precinct.- 

-Like, now?- 

-Yes, Ramirez, _now_. And stop saying “like” like a damn teen girl.- 

When he got up she was already half out of the door. Her heart was beating _so fast_. 

The girl tapped again on the steering wheel. 

-So, what happened?- 

-What do you mean?- 

-You're awfully silent. Has happened something wrong?- 

Carlton gave her a look. She cleared her throat.- Okay, sad choice of words. I was justwandering if I did something bad. I mean, we were getting along so well. I think we were getting a bit more laid back. You got terribly gloomy since we left again.- 

-I'm positive this is nothing of your business, girl.- 

It stung and it was meant to. Francesca tightened her lips and looked back at the road, not saying anything else. He was definitively better at the sulking thing however, because she got back on the track after less than a minute. 

-It was about the guy? The one at the warehouse?- 

Carlton's head snapped up. Like he had just been punched. -How- 

-I was there from the explosion, detective. I saw the guy and the cute blonde detective, when you tried to talk with them. He had those absurd spiky hair. I saw him going away.- 

Carlton clacked weakly, because a joke on Spencer's hair was funny no matter what. 

-Oh, sure. I know him. It's Spencer. We collaborated at some cases, he's a sort of P.I., even if I doubt he has any real certification. We were currently trying to...- 

-I don't think he left because he doesn't care, detective.- 

He didn't watch her after that. Better looking at the window, brushing the glass. There was no reflection. He hadn't seen, he'd come to the window. 

Talking was the hardest thing Carlton had ever done. 

-Turn to left at the crossroads.- 

-I'm very sorry, detective.- 

They stopped in front of Carlton's house shortly after. Francesca turned off the radio on some Spice Girl-esque piece while Carlton peered at his house through the windshield. It was everything as he left it the morning before. The garage was locked, his room's window sealed, even the pack from "Sniper's Digest"rested where he left it on the porch chair. He got out of the car and walked to the fence gate. He felt better. He didn't feel as concrete as at the PD, but a bit yes. 

Francesca closed her car door with a evaluating look. 

-So Yankees _do_ have copycat homes.- 

She strolled across the sidewalk and climbed over his fence. Carlton flinched at the streaks of mud on spotless white wood. 

-You say it like we're Cartoon people. And use the damn gate, _please_.- 

-Ops. My fault.- 

She didn't look particulary guilty. She thrust her hands in the jumpsuit's pockets, moving to examinehis bird seeds hanging from the apple tree. -Just like Desperate Housewives. _Cavolo_. So, we go in now?- 

-Certainly.- 

-Good.- 

And with that the girl crouched by his porch stairs and began rummaging in the Camelias pot. 

He stared in horror. - _What are you doing_?- 

She looked up innocently. -The second key. All American families have one in the movies.- 

-Well, not this one. It would be utterly dumb and a grotesque lack of any sensibility. In fact the only key of the house is...- 

Carlton froze with a hand half-way to his rear pocket. The keys were in his trousers. The trousers on his real self. 

The trousers currently neatly folded in a hospital drawer half across the city. 

-Crap.- 

Francesca got up, eyes wide. -Oh no. Oh _no_. Tell me they weren't in your pocket.- 

-It's, the safest place I could think of.- 

-So you don't have the keys?- The scowl deepened. -We're closed out of _your_ house?- 

Carlton vaguely remembered a day far in the past, O'Hara wishing him to "find himself on the wrong side of a scowl". He talked through gritted teeth. 

-It seems so.- 

-Oh, _cazzo_. Wait, can't you, uh, I don't know, _teleport_ inside?- 

Carlton swung from a foot to the other. -Can I?- 

-I'm asking it to _you_. Oh, that's brilliant. I'm in a stranger's garden talking alone and can't even go in. I could wear as well a damn billboard saying "C'mon call the police".- 

Carlton tuned her out, focusing. It was just a matter of patience. Of method. He mentally scrolled the way outs of his house. Door, _sealed_ , rear door, _never used_ , windows, _sealed_ and. Oh. 

-Follow me. I think I've got a solution.- 

Francesca stopped mid-rant, watching him rushing past her to the house's side. She grudgingly followed around the corner and down the side-walk, until Carlton gesyured her to stop. They were standing in front of a tiny window, stuck barely over ground level and looking down in the basement shadows. The frost glass was thick, but a crack of dark peered from the upper side. 

The girl considered it with distrust. -This is your solution?- 

-Yes.- 

-Can you please explain me the sense to put bulletproof doors and then leaving open the windows to your cellar?- She offered. -Anyway, it wouldn't trigger the alarm?- 

-I don't have an alarm.- Carlton lifted his chin. -The only alarm I need is _me_.- 

Francesca blinked slowly. 

-You've _seriously_ said it?- 

She began to giggle again, but all the same she crouched and followed his orders more or less dutifully. The window was stiff from lack of use, but with a bit of shoving it clacked open. The floor was not seven feet down. The girl held on a tight mantra of "Damn damn damn" while slipping her legs in the hole and hanging there, but in the end she got to the ground.Thud. 

-You okay there?- 

He listened carefully and caught a shuffle of clothes against stones. She was panting a bit. 

-Yeah, peachy. But get here _now_.- 

So Carlton slipped. Just that, in a way that had lot more to do with light and dust than people and brought him by the girl's side in the time of a breath. She flinched with a muffled curse while he took a first look. 

His basement was quiet. A cone of light streaked the concrete all the way to the inside door on the other side. Carlton checked the corners without even willing it, the conformation of the single pile of Victoria's boxes by the tool desk. Clear. He nodded to the girl, heading for the stairs. 

-Okay, let’s go. But be careful.- 

-Mh. You think someone entered before us?- 

He shushed her, listening hard to the upper floor. The fact was, he felt blinded, and so he felt nervous. He actually could see perfectly, _everything brighter and dimmer and lighter at one time_ , but for a cop it was not enough. He ached for touching, smelling, nerves. His hand ranto his shoulder out of use. 

–I don’t want ugly surprises. I go first.- 

-That’s _sure_ , detective.- 

They began to climb up the stairs. The inner door was not locked, and it took just a shove to crack it open. Carlton made her sign to step back, counted to ten and peered through, looking down the grey-moquetted, smooth-walled corridor, all the way to the bathroom door and the living room corner. 

Despite her hilarity, he had not lied about the alarm thing. He didn't love that house but he knew it perfectly. He could say by a simple glance if something was off, and how people and loneliness looked onto it. After less than a minute in, he knew there was no one. 

-Okay. All clear, we can get in.- 

They slipped past the door and Francesca's steps echoed inside likegrenades. He did a vague gesture to the right end of the corridor. 

–The closet is there, past the living room. There are probably all the relevant files of my career.- 

-You have an _archive_?- 

-Sure.- 

-Oh. Yes. So you live here?- 

Francesca brushed a door, eying the supermarket's calendar over her head. She looked exceedingly ruffled and young against that house. - It's, large. Very tidy.- 

He groaned in agreement. -Go there. I'm checking the Mercury.- 

He went to his bedroom, but of course, nothing was out of place. He just knew the wooden pack stuffed with soft cloths where his vintage guns rested was still safely in the manhole under the bed. He checked the way back to the living room. Somehow he found himself looking at it too. 

He had bought the cottage with its furniture, but had always kept it cleaned and presentable. He used no more than three rooms at time. He chose a new fridge last week. In the past monthsSpencer things had pushed back a lot of beige and brought in a lot of crap, but that morning no. They had not seen the night before the warehouse. No real reason, but Spencer had a movie night with Guster and he was up his neck in delayed paperwork and they were not yet in the phase when you can stay at home without doing anything fancy. They hadset it back to the next evening. Seriously, _why not_ , _what’s the problem, what can happen_? So now you could see no shirt tossed on his armchair, no half-filled juice glass left on the kitchen isle, no green post-it pinned on the microwave the morning after. It was annoying. Right now there was nothing, _nothing_ saying that house didn't belong to a single man, or that something had changed since one, two, four years ago. Carlton stopped by thecouch. He thought about people walking in to wrap his things, packing furniture, what they could see. They wouldn't see anything. It was tidy, and refined, and absolutely nothing said one night Shawn Spencer had walked in from pouring rain and kissed him on that carpet. 

-So detective, can I look inside?- 

He turned. The girl was standing by the closet door. He folded his arms, holding the pieces together. 

–Sure. It’s what we’re here for.- 

-I suppose so.- Francesca twisted backand stepped in the door. The closet was long and narrow, barely large enough to accommodate a metal drawer full of fishing baits and a cabinet against the back wall. In full light the surfaces looked dull with dust. 

-Whoa. It’s, impressive. I thought it would be bigger, though.- 

-Yes.- _Me too_. –However, look for Pocofov’s files. They’re in alphabetical order.- 

-Gotcha.- She crouched by the drawers, giving him a thumb-up. He was suddenly happy not to be alone. Francesca pulled out a thick envelope of files and hebegantomeasuretherugbackandforth. 

-So? What’s the first document?- 

The girl leaned against the bar, pinning the folders against her elbow. –Uh, a mug shot I think. Very old, it looked like Nineties. And behind, err, a correlated folder.- 

-Read it aloud. And, girl, sit down properly. This is going to be a long thing.- 

She scowled behind the papers, but dropped down on the carpet cross-legged. It must feel more dramatic than the couch. 

- _Okay_. Alexander Pocofov, sixteen years. Probably militating in the Chicken Paws, found in possession of eight pounds of rough heroine.Reference officer Det. Lassiter, arrest accomplished by Det. Lassiter.– She paused for a moment, probably translating. –So, you arrested him the first time too? You should have been young. - 

-First year as a detective.- Back and forth. –Go ahead. It's useful, but not what we’re looking for.- 

-You could be a bit more specific.- 

-You youngsters have no discipline at all?- 

-Basically _this youngster_ does not have time. We can't stay here forever.- 

She had a point. Carlton closed his eyes, tapping a temple. He mapped the last days in his mind, scanning clues, patterns. Drugs, that was obvious. Basis of every gang, a gang, yes, Eastern Europe. There was a memory itching at the edge. Let’s give it a try. 

-Try looking at the Gang files. 2000-2002, I think.- 

Francesca put the pile down with a thud, going over it. 

She didn’t do much else for the next two hours. 

They ran through almost any files in the folder, and discovered things. They discovered that Pocofov was a immigrstes' son that he had followed several pretty big bosses of Santa Barbaraand that he had been used as a gang sniper, but just that. That was the problem: it was not different than ten other cases Carlton alone had followed through years. He was unremarkable. The two of them could have exchange less than ten words in all those years. No other connections. 

The sun became a fat ball up over the roofs. The outer world was humming by the shutters with a low buzz of bees. Carlton kept pacing back and forth. At some point the girl stood to sneaka chocolate bar from her haversack, but after his glare she nibbled at it at safe distant from his papers. 

The carpet around her was a flood of papers. There were photocopies, notes, snapshots neatly pinned on the inside of folders. The wall behind them was covered in newspaper articles and photo portraits, everything hanging from metal pins. Everyone was hemmed with tidy comments in red felt pen. Under it, at the exact center of the wall were four little photos that had nothing to do with crime scenes, but that was not the moment. 

-Nothing. There’s _nothing_.- 

The rhythm of the strides had increased steadily with each file. 

-What is the sense of an archive if there’s nothing vaguely useful in it? This bloody Russian-ish punkish rascal didn’t do anything remarkable in his entire career, and we don’t find anything, and it is _so_ not useful.- 

He did and undid his jacket's botton for the seventh time.Oh, c'mon _c'mon_. He was good at it. He solved crimes, even before Spencer, even before O’Hara. They believed in him. They were missing him. He was still himself. It was important. 

Francesca took a chunk of chocolate. -What are you exactly angry at?- 

-Shh. I’m _working_.- 

-Mh. You want to recapitulate?- She offered, voice begging for pity. 

He had none. –Yes. Okay, facts so far. Pocofov got arrested three times, two he was still a juvenile and therefore was not gravely persecuted, one he spent two years in prison for drug dealing but got out for good behavior. Probable involvement in three other cases but just as a secondary actor. For a good seventy percent of the cases involving him I was the detective in charge.- 

-Ah, yes.- 

-He used a rare gun linked with personal matters to shoot a public officer.- 

-Yes.- 

-Hecausedanexplosiontocovercluesandmaybeattemptatmyteam'slives. The likely charge is attempted homicide. It could become homicide.- 

-Yes.- 

She cleared her throat. Gulped down the chocolate.Back and forth, back and forth. He tried to think about something to say, but he was watching a man making coffee. 

-Detective. Who has the other old gun?- 

-Mh?- 

-Back at the warehouse, you said only two people in town had a gun like this. Yours is still here, but they used a bullet that doesn’t work with any other pistol. So I wonder, who has the other old gun?- 

He stopped midstep. He looked at his foot, blinked, put it slowly back on the carpet. His Cop Sense tingled again. 

–The other gun, sure. _Sure.-_

-I mean, it was just an idea, I- 

-The other person is Macom Roday. -He said fast.–He’s a detective. The former police chief of Santa Barbara.- 

-You know each other?- 

-Yes. He was Head Detective when I was just out of the Academy.-He smiled weakly. -He taught me not to throw up on my shoes at crime scenes.- 

-Uh.Isuppose it's a, bonding experience. You think there could be a link?- 

Carlton frowned,dashing around again. He hadn’t taken information about Detective Rodayin several months, one year maybe. In effect he had lived in Santa Barbara for ages but had now moved farer, down in Cambria. It could make sense Carlton didn’t get notified if he had been robbed. Or maybe he sold the Mercury for some reason. So _yeah_ , there could be a big damn link. 

-Actually yes. More than yes.- He said. -Pocofov’s activities are linked with greater matters. Maybe the crime range was larger than we had thought. And the gun, ah, that could not be mistaken. Maybe it is a revenge, maybe all is connected with Roday's cases.- He ran to her, crouched among the files. -Even if there is no direct involvement, he could however have some other information. The gun, sure.- 

A big plan.Pocofov, his teacher, his mentor, implicated, oh damn oh _yes_.The girl looked up at him. 

-That’s a good, uh, trail detective?- 

-That’s _definitively_ a good trail.- 

She smiled. Hell, he smiled. 

They didn’t bother to put everything back at place. He knew the rules, and they were in war, so there were other rules. He even let the girl snatch a fruit juice from his fridge, and then they were running along the corridor and down the stairs and to the basement window, because going out from the front door would be really too suspect. He thought about it, and was out on the grass. For the first time he actually thought how incredibly handy could that thing be. 

-You, you stay there, okay? Don’t let me here, okay?- 

-Don’t say nonsense, girl. And move.- He bit his lip, feeling almost like laughing. They had a trail. A trail was everything. A trail was things to do and words to speak and above all to keep going. It would all go well. Francesca was already half way out of the trap. It would all go well. 

The girl squirmed out of the hole and froze. 

She was looking at some point behind him. Carlton frowned, and when he was about to ask what was wrong someone called behind them. 

-Ehy! What the Hell are ya doing here?- 

He turned. Guster was standing at the house's corner, holding a plastic bag and staring right at the girl stuck in his basement window. 

-Fuck.- Francesca said. 

-Fuck.- Carlton said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, never trust Lassie's gut feelings. However, some trivia: I called Pocofov's fictional gang Chicken Paws thinking about a Russian fairytale about a witch going around on a chicken-pawed house. It seemed fitting and I can't resist these things.The chapter title just popped up in my mind all of a sudden, and it sounds so well I couldn't resist. Next chap already half-done, see you.  
> P.S.: I would deeply cherish some comments on this. Go on, that was crap, this kind of things. I love this story, help me make the best of it. Thanks in advance.


	9. Sapientium Mensa (The Wise Men' Table)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francesca and Carlton confess lots of things, not the last that she see immaterial detectives. And Juliet is about to meet them, at the table of wise men.

**IX – Sapientium Mensa**

**(The Wise Men’ Table)**

They were all talking behind the Interrogation Room door, McNab, Guster and the chief. There were no windows and so all the light were the neon lamps pouring down on their faces. Carlton had never thought to find himself on this side of the door, trying to squint hard enough through the glass square, to decipher frowns and pauses. The three of them were discussing about a burglary, and it had gone on for more than half an hour. The fact they were discussing about a burglary in _his_ house made everything bordering on voyeuristic. 

-It’s your fault. It’s all _your fault_.- Francesca said for the tenth time. – I knew it would end like this.- 

-Keep calm, girl. The more you fret the more you get suspect.- 

He was standing behind her chair, leaning lightly against the wall. Of course no one had seen him, but he had still managed to keep close to her all the way to the PD. It had not been a true trip however. just a hazy cloudy thing that projected him in the PD hall. He had decided he positively disliked the hazy things. 

-I should not fret? You made me get arrested for trying to force _a cop’s house_.- 

-Listen, just answer their questions and try to look calm. And sit straighter on that chair.- 

In exchange she dropped her head on the desk. 

-I’m dead. They’re going to call my parents. _Merda. Merda merda merda.-_

-Try not to swear too.- 

-It’s Italian, no one of you barbarians know it.- She lifted a bit from the table and cast an haunted look at the door. Carlton concluded he could excuse the insult out of stress. –Uhm, they don’t look happy at all. They’re calling my parents.- She let a sound dangerously close to a whimper. 

-Now don’t make a scene. We’ll say you’re some kind of relative. It will work.- 

-It won’t.- 

-So we’ll say you’re a reporter, that you discovered my name after the warehouse shooting and tried to get a scoop coming to my house. You’re legal and uncensored, it’ll work.- 

She turned to him. Bit her lip. 

–Yes. Maybe.- 

-Good. Now, low profile, girl. Nothing fancy. No hint at my condition. Follow me. And…- 

The room door clicked open in that moment. The Chief stepped in with a clack of heels, wearing a blue suit and the expression she used with despicable suspects. Guster leaned in behind her, brushed her arm and she nodded. 

Slowly, Carlton’s hand untied his jacket. 

-Okay girl. Stop smiling, but don’t frown. Hands on the desk. Sober but not stiff.- 

Francesca’s head snapped up to him. –How the Hell…?- 

-Good morning, miss Ermete.- 

The Chief’s voice filled the room. She was walking to the interrogation table, slowly, and pushed back the second chair of the table. She made no move to sit down. 

-I’m Karen Vick, Chief of Santa Barbara Police Department. I have some questions you should answer to.- 

-Ah, sure.- 

-It was not a request, miss.- 

The girl threw Carlton a wide-eyed glance, but he had no real advice. Instead, he was staring at Guster. He was being utterly silent, sitting on a chair under the one-side glass on the front of the room. He vaguely looked like the time he had eaten a whole jar of expired peanut butter. 

The chief kept talking. –Well. So, your name is Francesca Ermete, daughter of Alessandro and Anna Ermete, resident in LA since this January. Is it correct?- 

-Yes?- 

-Twenty years, student at Sociology Department of Milan University, currently relocating in Los Angeles college. Still correct?- 

-Yes.- 

-Good. Do you understand me clearly, Miss Ermete?- 

-Uh, yes.- 

-Very good.- 

The Chief gave her a thin smile. She slipped on the chair, crossed her legs. 

-Why did you try to force an officer’s house, miss?- 

In Francesca’s look was all the panic of the world. 

-Low profile, girl.- 

For an handful of seconds Carlton was sure the girl was about to crack. She stopped breathing, clasped the desk’s edge until it squeaked. She finally stuttered something out. 

-Ah, ah, yes. Ah, listen, it’s all a big misunderstanding. I was no trying to do anything. I’m a reporter, I have a blog. I was just trying to find some juicy news.- 

Carlton’s eyebrow rose slowly. – _Juicy_?- 

- _Shut up_.- 

The Chief doesn’t look impressed. -Miss, I think you’re not appreciating the gravity of such an act. Burglary in a police officer’s residence is a serious felony, and I’m sure you’re aware of the particular circumstances of the case. Said officer is currently in hospital in critical conditions. You can understand this does not help your position.- 

The girl’s accent had thickened of several degrees. 

-I, really, I just wanted some infos. I saw the accident and got intrigued and…- 

-Where did you find Det. Lassiter’s address, miss?- 

-Ah, _Wikipedia_?- 

Francesca grinned at the Chief. Carlton pinched his nose even without actually feeling the headache. 

-Girl, I think his mother too has some uncertainties about his exact whereabouts. I _truly_ doubt you discovered it all by yourself.- 

-I could explain that.- 

The chief’s smile grew colder. -So maybe you could also explain why your fingerprints had been detected on the gas meter of said warehouse?- 

_The gas meter. Damn, he had been_ so stupid _._

The girl licked her lips. -I, I was just trying to help there.- 

-Help _who_ , Miss Ermete?- 

-No one.- 

\- Nonsense. You could have been contaminating evidences in that warehouse, spoiling clues.- 

-I know, but.- 

\- Contamination is a very grave accusation too, you know? – 

\- But I didn’t do it. I swear. You, you would not think I’m implicated with Pocofov, right?- 

Silence fell hard and Francesca sucked in. Vick’s face became cold and tight. Carlton let out an Irish curse he hadn’t heard since his Grandma’s visits. 

-What do you know about Pocofov, miss?- 

-Oh. _Merda_.- 

-How do you know that name, Miss Ermete?- 

-I, I don’t know it. I don’t know anything at all. I’m an Italian girl. I study _Sociology_.- 

-Yet you said it and knew it’s connected with Detective Lassiter.- 

-Ah, yes, but I didn’t mean. I. Listen, really. Let’s all keep calm…- 

-Listen you to _me_ , girl.- The Chief hurled forward out of nowhere, over the desk, hands flat on the table, and suddenly she was angry and human and dangerous. She talked softly through clenched teeth. 

-Carlton Lassiter is a great detective, a just man and a dear friend, but first of all is one of my people. He’s one _of mine_ , and yesterday someone had nearly shot him to death in front of me and God damn me if I’ll let some spunky wobbly brat joking with his life.- 

Francesca staggered back on the chair. -This is not going well.- She hissed. –Not _well at all_.- 

-I know.- 

Vick’s eyes darted to Carlton’s spot. -Who are you talking with?- 

-Oh, crap.- 

The Chief leaned further, Francesca shrank back with a sob. Carlton looked at the tight line of Vick’s lips and knew they were over. 

-Miss Ermete, please.- 

The words were so sudden everyone shut up for a moment. The chief too looked stunned. 

Surprisingly, it was Guster. Surprisingly, he was staring right at Francesca. 

-Guster…- 

-Just a sec, Chief. Miss Ermete, there are two people I deeply love that happened to be both, very close with Detective Lassiter. We’ve known each other for four years. I tip tapped with him. 

The fact is, they all are good persons, very good persons, so I just want to find out the truth for them. You don’t look to me like a bad person. I don’t think you want to create more pain than necessary.- 

The Chief slipped back on her seat, sighing. Francesca half-muttered something sheepish and looked down, Carlton watching over her head. 

Guster. He had stepped in cold case room with him and Spencer in no-unmistakable attitudes, and said nothing. He was a good man. Like him. 

Oh, Hell. 

_Think, breathe, act_ . 

–Francesca. I think we should say it.- 

-Say what?- 

-The truth. All of it.- 

She did a strangled sound. -Oh, no. No no no, detective. This is shitty enough even without throwing in that.- 

-You’re talking to thin air in the middle of an Interrogation room, it’s already too late.- 

-Please…- 

- _Please_ , Francesca. They deserve it.- 

The girl watched him for a long moment. She looked angry, and scared, and too young for any of that. He saw the dark soft thing he’d seen back at the hospital surfacing again. 

_You can’t leave. No I can’t._

-Miss. Is there something bothering you?- 

Francesca turned again to talk. She stopped. She munched a flake of nail polish on her thumb. 

-I, actually I have something to say. It’ll sound weird, stupid and so on, but it’s the truth. And I want you to know I wouldn’t ever ever come up with this if it was not the truth.- 

Guster and the Chief leaned in. Vick’s shoulders were tight, ready to leap. 

–What is it, Miss Ermete?- 

Francesca stared right at them. –I know who Pocofov is because I’m talking with Detective Lassiter.- 

* 

Jules stepped in the PD and immediately knew she had been dumb. She had had a shower and a change of clothes before leaving, but she should still look like a wreck. She hadn’t put on any makeup, the hair was still in a mop and her eye sockets looked blue as punch bruises. And Gus had been a dear to bring her something to wear, but being a male and a kinda prim one too, he had sorted out a Cinnamon Fair shirt and a pair of leggings she wouldn’t ever wear in public again. She hesitated under the first puzzled-and-pitiful glances of the hall, feeling very much like the ten-years-old no one picked up after school. 

Oh, hell _no_. She was a detective. She was big enough to act tough even without being super-cute. C’mon O’Hara. 

She lifted her chin and jogged briskly in front of all the staring faces. McNab was sitting at one of the desk in front of a pile of reports. Juliet knocked lightly on the table until he looked up. 

-Detective O’Hara.- 

-Buzz.- 

-I didn’t think…it’s good to see you here. How is he?- 

_Far far away._ –It depends.- 

-Sure.- 

They stopped talking, the precinct’s clacks and hums around them. Buzz’s face looked tight and the uniform shirt was in a jumble. 

-I should inspect some docs in the archive, and Carlton’s pc too. Can you see to it?- 

-Of course. Ah, Detective O’Hara, actually I was going to call you anyway. There’s something you should see.- 

-Sorry?- 

-This morning Gus went to Detective Lassiter’s to pick up the clothes you asked him, and, he heard some voices. He found a girl trying to get in from the basement window.- 

-Sorry…?- 

-The Chief is in Interrogation Room 1. I know nothing specific, but things got kinda complicated. She’ll fill you there.- 

-Oh. Oh, okay.- 

Juliet swallowed hard. She felt the sudden urge to curl down against the wall and tell the world to fuck off. No, not this too, no _stop please_. It’s getting ridiculous. Stop please. 

-Detective O’Hara?- 

-I’m okay McNab. Take me to the Chief.- 

-Okay.- 

He got up with a grimace and gestured Juliet to lead the way. They walked in silence, across the hall and turning left and down the corridor of archives and cold case rooms, and it left her all the time to think about what could have happened and was still happening. When they got in front of the grey-scraped doors of Interrogation Room 1 she realized she was trembling. She clutched her fists and took a deep breath, but it didn’t work. 

McNab squeezed Juliet’s arm. Watching up she saw he was smiling and she patted him back. Gosh, the boy _so_ deserved a nice gift next Christmas. 

-Okay. Let’s go. - 

-Yeah, detective.- 

She pushed the door open. 


	10. Credis, Credis (Y0u Believe, You Believe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Francesca revealed the Chief the truth - that she is a medium and is helping Carlton -Jules and Shawn discovers it too: Shawn doesn't believe it, and leaves again. Jules would really like not to believe it.

**X - Credis, credis**

**(You believe, you believe)**

_I'm there in the water,_

_Still looking for ya_

_I'm there in the water,_

_Can't you see, can't you see?_

Dead in the Water, Ellie Goulding 

Juliet pushed open the door and took a look around. The Interrogation Room felt curiously crowded. Gus and the chief were sitting on the right side of the table, looking grimly at the wall; on the other side was a girl, early twenties, scrawny look, fidgeting with her hair. Against the nearest wall was sitting Shawn. She had the strange sensation there was someone else in the room she should note, but it passed. The Chief nodded to her. 

–O’Hara, you’re here. Good.” 

“Yes.” Jules said. “I’ve gathered you want to show me something.” 

“Yes. It is, actually a very peculiar situation.” 

“So I’ve heard.” 

From his chair, Gus shyly waved at her. He looked somewhere between very angry and very alarmed. She waved back and turned to the man sitting by the wall. 

“Shawn.” 

“Jules.” 

He smiled, and he was so good at it it actually seemed real. The left temple was a bit swollen. He looked almost uneasy. She found it perfectly fair. 

“Take a seat, O’Hara.” 

“I would like to know what’s going on first, Chief.” 

“You’re going to. Take a seat.” 

Vick turned towards the girl. “Miss Ermete, this is Detective Juliet O’Hara. She is-she is Detective Lassiter’s partner.” 

Juliet slipped on the last free chair, not liking it one bit. The gun was in the pocket under the rain jacket. She felt it brushing her breast. 

“Has Miss Ermete something to do with the latest happenings, Chief?” 

“That’s what we’re trying to determine. Please, miss, tell us your story again.” 

At that the girl seemed taken aback. She looked to her left, muttering something. She was tormenting her hands. 

“Listen, I don’t want any problems. I’m, I'm a good girl.” 

“You’ve already said it miss.” 

“But you don't believe” 

“No I _don't._ But maybe my detective here could help.” 

Juliet had followed the exchange with a frown. 

“Chief, I fear I do not understand.” 

The chief leaned back on her chair and crossed her legs, slowly. –You see, O’Hara. This is Miss Francesca Ermete. She’s Italian, twenty-two, and she had been caught trying to break in Detective Lassiter’s house early this morning.” 

It was like turning a switch on. The anger was so sudden Juliet was shaking. _How she dared, how she dared_. She practically felt Shawn’s eyes burning all the way through her chair. “Sorry?” 

The girl should have caught something, because she shrank further on the chair. 

“Yes. Guster was at Detective Lassiter’s house for your commission and saw miss Ermete trying to squeeze in from the basement window. Moreover, her fingerprints matched the ones found on the gas meter of the warehouse.” 

Juliet's head was fluctuating. She barely heard Shawn's chair screeched on the floor over her pulse. Her nails dig in the chair's arms before realizing it. Juliet knew what the Chief was doing, feeding their angers to further intimidate the suspect. She totally approved. 

“No, no, wait. It's not like it seems.” The scrawny girl squeaked. “I, please. Let me explain.” 

“You better have a damn good story, pal” Shawn hissed. 

“I, I just.” 

She sighed. “Okay. It's kind of awkward, but. Let's say I'm collaborating with Detective Lassiter.” 

“Detective Lassiter is in a coma, miss.” 

“Yeah. Well, that's the awkward part. I'm collaborating with Detective Lassiter because I have, certain skills in talking with souls.” 

Silence fell. Gus clenched his jaw, peeking at them. Juliet swallowed. 

“What?” 

“You know, people without bodies and stuff. Detective Lassiter has come to me after the accident to, seek help.” 

“Chief.” 

“Don't ask me, guys.”Vick said grimly. “She gave us the same version. She said she can see Detective Lassiter, and that she's helping him. She said it has been him bringing her to his house.” 

“You're kidding.” 

“Absolutely no.” 

“So you’re what? A sort of medium?” 

“No.” Francesca said. –I mean, _yes_. I see things, that's true, but in a totally _normal_ way.” 

That didn't help. The girl turned and looked to the left wall. Here it was again. She looked at that point again. Empty but precise. She had been doing it all through the interrogation and in coincidence with difficult moments . Was it some sort of tic? 

The Chief sighed, leaning across the table. Her face looked softer and warier, but Jules couldn't say if it was an act. 

“Look kid, I know how it goes. And I want to help you. You're young, in a new city, a new _country_. You don't have to tell things to be scared. You don’t have to play to get some attention.” 

“What? Oh, it’s not like this, I “Or, or better, _yes. Yes,_ it’s exactly like thi-” 

She suddenly jerked on the side, like something had shoved her . She furiously glared to the left. “What? What’s wrong? Don’t get all grumpy on me, _Jebediah_.” 

Jebediah. The name rang all the way through Juliet like a thunderbolt. Blood rushed off her face. 

Jebediah. 

She had to try twice before sputtering a word. 

“What did you say, miss?” 

“Ah, nothing. Just mumbling.” 

No, she wasn't just mumbling. Jebediah. Jules pushed the chair forward and felt her heart racing. Oh, Jules, you foolish girl. 

“Okay, let’s say I believe you. Why did he choose you? Where did you meet?” 

The girl scowled. “Is it a trick?” 

The Chief stirred in her chair. “O'Hara” 

“No. Answer the question.” 

“Jules” 

“ _Shut up._ Miss, answer the question.” 

“Okay.” The girl licked her lips. “Okay. We met, met at the warehouse.” 

“That is where?” 

Look to the left. 

“ On the docks, Elder street. No, not Elder street, the other by the Pizza Hut.” 

“What did he say?” 

“That he wanted my help.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he wanted to help you.” 

“And then?” 

“We were going to check his archive. First we stopped at his house." 

She was pointing at Shawn. Her friend jumped visibly. 

Juliet breathed very slowly. 

“Did he want to investigate?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is he here?” 

The girl stared at her. She wasn't lying. 

“Yes.” 

Shawn got up so suddenly it made them start. “Oh, _c’mon,_ Jules.” He shouted. “You can’t possibly believe her can you?” 

“That’s not the point, Spencer.” 

“That’s exactly the point Chief.”He replied. “Jules, shake it off. You're smarter than that. It’s obvious she’s a wacko trying to get some attention. How can’t you see that?” 

Juliet didn't know what to say. No one of them knew. Shawn turned with a growl. “Oh, Hell. I’m gone.” 

“Shawn. _Shawn_.” 

She shot on her feet and was out of the room. Shawn was clipping along to the doors. 

“Shawn, what are you doing?” 

“What I'm doing? What _you_ are doing.” He stopped. “I don't know if it is some kind of cop thing, but it's stupid.” 

“You can't leave now. Not here _too_.” 

It stang and Shawn hissed, looking away. “Listen, I, I'm working on that, okay?” He said. “But you need to get that fuck out of here.” 

“I'm not sure it's so simple, Shawn.” 

That caught his attention. He looked up at his old friend. “Oh my God. You believe her.” He whispered. “You believe _her_ , Jules.” 

“I’m just saying that we couldn’t rule out any option.” 

“ _Jules_.” 

“She knew his middle name, Shawn. No one, no one but me knows his middle name.” 

She bit her lip. He felt like throwing up. Smart Jules, trusting Jules, believing in things, giving lots of chances. _You know it, don't you, Shawn?_

He staggered back. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.” 

“Shawn. Shawn, listen” 

She reached out. He slipped away. “No. I’m sorry Jules. Really.” 

In the room they all heard the corridor doors snapping open and closing again, and then the clang of a metal drawer as someone kicked it. No one said a word. 

* 

In the end they dismissed her. No one really believed she was compromised with Serbian gangs, and there were better trails to follow. She was legal, so they couldn't call her parents without authorization. Just stay in town all through the investigation, be available for further clarifications etc etc. Francesca said yes to everything, casting worried glances at Lassiter. He didn't look well. He hadn't said a word since the young scrubby man and the blonde cop ran away and argued in the corridor. He looked diaphanous, unreal for the first time since they met. 

He quietly followed her out of the Chief's office. 

"Hey. Are you okay?" 

"In your opinion?" 

Francesca grunted. "I was just trying to be gentle. You're a complicated person to care for, detective." 

"Yes. Sorry." 

He didn't sound sorry at all. She followed his gaze, and on the other side of the precinct the blonde detective was rummaging around one of the desks. 

She sighed. "You want for me to go talking with her again, right?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh, fuck me. Let's go." 

“Detective. Detective O’Hara.” 

When she saw who she was Juliet’s eyes frosted. “Oh, no.” She grunted. “Can’t you just leave me alone, can you?” 

“Believe me, I'd gladly do.” 

“So do it.” 

“I _can_ 't. Detective O’Hara, I really need to talk to you.” 

“Why?” 

Fran had no real answer. 

Juliet picks up her papers. “Miss Ermete, I’m still not sure if I have something against you, but it’d be better for everyone if you go away now. I’m very busy.” 

“Please, it’ll take a moment.” 

“Don't try me further.” 

She walked away. Francesca gave Lassiter a helpless shrug. 

“Go after her. _Go after her_.” 

“Oh, _cavolo_.” He was giving her the wide-blue-eyed look, and she felt as if she’d just kicked a seal pup. She grunted and flashed behind the detective. He tagged along. 

“Detective O’Hara. It’s. I think we could help you.” 

“We?” 

“I and Detective Lassiter.” 

A pause. “You should stop with this right now, girl.” 

“But it’s the truth. Listen, I know that if someone can believe us, it’s you” 

“You know nothing about me, Miss Ermete.” 

“But he _does_.” Francesca replied. She stopped. –He, he told me a lot of things about you.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“He said, that there wouldn’t be anyone else brave enough to believe it.” 

Detective O'Hara fixed her for a long moment. She grinned, shaking her head. 

“He wouldn’t ever say something like that. Now I ask you to step back and leave me alone before your position gets even more compromising.” 

Then Juliet turned and left them behind, head up and slippers tapping. Francesca opened her mouth, but she was already out of reach. 

Juliet. 

Carlton had watched it all from the corridor wall, silently. He watched his partner's pale hard face as she passed him without looking. 

He clutched his fists. 

“Let me talk with her.” 

Fran flinched. “Detective” 

“Let me talk with her. Say exactly what I’m going to say. The exact words, okay?” 

“I, oh, _okay_.” 

He nodded, and they began. Lassiter was talking fast, like a tight”compressed prayer and it was not easy to keep up, but she managed. It became a single speech. She didn't miss a word. 

“He knows you, O'Hara.” They cried across the corridor. Juliet froze. 

“He knows you buy hay-protein bars but always ends up eating half of his muffin. It's not he doesn't want the other half, it's that he leaves it to you. He knows you learnt to shoot with your uncle's rifle and still think they're better. That you punched your escort to the prom. He knows that on your first crime scene you cried in the hallway and no one knows but him. 

He knows that you're the first person that believed in him after so much time.” 

Detective Lassiter fell silent, and Fran too. Detective O'Hara was still turned. Her shoulders were shaking, slightly, oh so slightly. Then she swirled around and walked back to them and Francesca was sure she was about to get the crap beaten out of herself. 

Detective O'Hara stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. 

“Fine. _Fine_ , girl.” 

“Fine what?” 

“I’ll help you. Whatever it is, I. I'm in.” 

Fran let out a sigh. 

“Oh, thanks. I know it’s strange but-” 

She found herself shoved against the metal drawer before blinking. Her back hit the rowers with a loud clung. Detective O'Hara’s arm pressed against her throat, a step before painful. 

“Listen to me girl, and listen well. I'm believing you. I believe people, and I give them my trust, but remember it is not granted. If you betray it, if this is all some sort of sick joke, you will pay. You will pay and I’ll _see to it_ , for Carlton and for me. Is it clear?” 

Francesca breathed hard. She licked her lips. –Crystal clear.” 

“Good.” 

Juliet stepped back, releasing her. She rearranged her ugly rain jacket. 

“I’ll present you as a witness to the case to provide you some kind of authorization. We meet at my car in five minutes. If you are real, you’ll know where to look.” 

She gave a curt nod and paced back along the corridor. Her gaze swayed Carlton’s way for the briefest moment. 

Francesca gulped loudly as the double doors closed behind Juliet. 

“And here I thought you were the badass one, detective.” 

Carlton’s smile was the brightest thing in the room. 

– I taught her well.” 

* 

“Ehy, Jules.” 

Juliet glared up and bit back a curse. Gus. Oh no Gus no. Gus was too gentle. Gus was too difficult to get angry at. 

“What’s up?” 

“Gus. Please, it’s not the moment.” 

He grabbed her elbow. “Jules. Where are you going?” 

“I think this is my business, Gus.” 

She wasn’t sure if he felt her shivering. “Well, sure. I just, saw what happened, you know. In the corridor. Thought you could need something.” 

“I know. I'm sorry. Sometimes I forgot you’re the sweet one.” 

“Yeah.” 

They were already out in the PD parking, and it seemed only natural Gus was walking by her side 

“I don’t know why he got so upset, however. I mean, he’s a, a psychic, he should at least give her benefit of the doubt, no?” 

“I, suppose so.” 

“You shouldn’t be with him by the way?” 

Gus shrugged. –I, don’t think it’ll be any good actually. It’d just make him put up some more show. And he’s healthy and not-unconscious, so I’m available.” 

She did a thin smile and looked down at her slippers. 

“Jules. You have a trail, don’t you?” 

–How do _you_ know?” 

“Experience. So?” 

“I'm not sure it's a trail. I.” Jules sighed. “I’m waiting for her Gus. The girl, the Italian.” 

“The _medium”-hing psycho_?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m working on the “Why” part.” She ran a hand through her hair and stared back at him. –Gus, she knew things. Things that only, only Carlton could know.” 

“It’s madness, Jules.” 

“Maybe it is. Maybe not. I, I know it's stupid, but then I think about Carlton and the hospital and her, and I. I just know that I can't let it go.” 

“It could get nasty.” 

“I know, but I can't care.” 

Juliet got closer. “What would you do if it were Shawn, Gus?” She asked. “If he was like this and you have the strangest chance to help. Where would you stop?” 

Gus didn't answer. Then he muttered a curse and rested his head against the wall. 

“Oh, damn.” He moaned. –So, I guess I should come with you?” 

_No._

–Yes, please.” 

Someone appeared behind the glass doors. It was the girl. Juliet put a hand on Gus’s arm before he could wave and watched, holding her breath. That was the test. If she found her car, it meant, it meant _something_. The girl gave a long look around, turned to her left, nodded and headed in their direction. She was going to her car. Juliet’s heart dropped. 

“Holy shit, Carlton.” She started across the parking. “Holy shit.” 

When they got to her car the girl was leaning against the backdoor, drumming fingers on the car side. She looked paler than before, and seeing them she visibly jerked back. Maybe she’d been a bit hard back in. Juliet's girly soul ached for a comb for those absurd hair. 

She stopped in front of the girl and put on her Ray-bans, smoothly slipping in Cop mode. 

“Good. You came. This is” 

“Burton Guster, yes. I know him.” 

She didn't comment. –He’ll come with us. Is it clear?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“Good. Get on the car.” 

The girl slipped on the back seat without a word. Juliet reached for her door and nodded to Gus. He brushed her arm over the roof. 

“What’s the plan now, Jules?” 

“I have no idea, Gus.” 

“Mh. That sounds familiar.” 


End file.
